Blood and Steel
by DualKatanas
Summary: Gorgoth gro-Kharz, a brutal warrior-shaman from Orsinium, didn't expect to end up as the champion of the Nine, acclaimed by many as the Hero of Kvatch. But now that he finally has a cause worth fighting for, he and his new comrades will stop at nothing to defeat Mehrunes Dagon. Excuse the initially poor writing. Constructive criticism appreciated. Finally complete.
1. Broken

**A/N: Reviews with constructive criticism are always helpful, but please bear in mind that updates WILL be slow due to cursed time constraints.**

**Update (29/01/12): I've become increasingly aware of and embarrassed by the low quality of many of my early chapters. Thus, I will be attempting to re-edit them to bring them up to my current standards of quality as soon as possible. If you're a new reader, please excuse the shoddy first several chapters; I've got a lot better since I started this fic a year and a half ago. If you stay with it, you'll get to the better writing soon enough. And reviews pointing out where I've gone wrong in these early chapters (and there are a LOT of mistakes) will be much appreciated.**

**Update: (11/09/12): I'll correct myself; given how long I take to write new chapters normally, the re-editing of my earlier chapters will have to wait for a while. **

* * *

**Chapter One: Broken**

Gorgoth gro-Kharz awoke. He was immediately aware of several things, pain being the most prominent, a poker of fire down his ribs. The cold stone floor beneath him meant that he wasn't at home in his bed in the Wrothgarians. The air was warmer than in the mountains near Orsinium. He was south, very far to the south. Light was streaming down onto his face, though from a very specific area, and interrupted as though the window was... barred.

The Orc's yellow eyes shot open. Pain hammered his head, and he narrowed them to slits to protect against the sudden light streaming into his eyes through the window, which was indeed barred. That meant he was inevitably in a prison of some sort. The lack of weight on his body meant that his armour was gone. Gorgoth felt a pang of regret. The best armourers in Orsinium had forged it, from the finest steel from the ores of the mountains. His ragged shirt and trousers were all that remained on him, his green feet bare.

Gorgoth gritted his teeth as he dragged himself back to lean against the wall in a sitting position. Two of his ribs had been shattered, probably by a mace blow. Dried blood cracked as he contorted his facial muscles, initiating a trickle running down his jaw. A quick, powerful healing spell would take care of that. Gorgoth raised his arm to cast the basic spell he had known long before he became a powerful, respected shaman. Nothing happened. Gorgoth frowned as he tried a more powerful spell. Again, nothing.

This was odd. The warrior-shaman could feel his deep reserves of magicka lying dormant, untapped. His fingers found the small hole in his head and dug inside, ignoring the excruciating pain. He found thick unbroken skull. No brain damage. Gorgoth tried to think of what might have happened, but his mind was only just engaging from its period of dormancy, so he gave up. He wiped his bloody fingers on his torn tunic and turned his mind to remembering.

Slowly, the events of the last few days came back to him. He had been part of a group of warriors given a covert task by King Gortwog. A mine in the Wrothgarians had been commandeered by a corrupt Imperial official, who was now working the Orc miners murderously while skimming profits off the top for himself and his lieutenants. The King couldn't take action officially, so he sent Gorgoth and other warriors to take care of the problem, as deniable assets. The Imperial had been tipped off and had Imperial Legionmen ready. Gorgoth remembered using his considerable magic powers to keep most of the legionnaires at bay, before he was Silenced by the battlemages. He had fought on for a long time with just his mace, before eventually being beaten down and thrown into a prison carriage with the rest of his broken party that were still alive. His mind had eventually gone to sleep, whether from poison, exhaustion, or beatings, he knew not.

A Silence spell. It had to be. Not one of the short-term ones, where the victim couldn't cast any spells, but a long-term one that wore off gradually. Gorgoth tried one of his weaker spells, and felt a trickle of magicka flow into his battered body, giving off a faint blue light. The hole in his head shrank. The massive Orc sighed and prepared to wait for the spell to wear off sufficiently enough that he could heal himself fully. He raised his huge head and ran his eyes over his cell.

Bleak, grey stone walls. Not much to stimulate the eye. The window was several feet above his head, with firm bars blocking the way out even if he could have fit through the opening. There were several irons hanging down from chains, obviously used for punishment or shackling of some sort. Near them, the door. Steel bars set in stone were a barrier to his freedom. He didn't even try testing the strength. These prison doors were often magically enhanced. His unlocking spells wouldn't work even if he was at full magical strength.

Gorgoth's vision wasn't restricted to just his cell. There was another, identical, if slightly darker cell exactly opposite his, across the narrow corridor. From his position slumped beneath the window, Gorgoth couldn't see much of it, but he could see the red eyes of a Dunmer watching him without blinking. A harsh voice reached his ears.

"By the Nine Divines, you're an ugly one. But then, all Orcs are ugly." Even in the darkness, Gorgoth could see a twisted smile creep across the Dark Elf's face. He was revelling in his torment.

Gorgoth hauled himself to his feet, suppressing the urge to wince at the savage pain assaulting his side. He walked slowly over to the cell gate. The Dunmer's eyes grew slightly wider as he saw how _big_ his fellow prisoner was. Gorgoth stood seven feet at full height, yet his huge, heavily-muscled body meant he had the bulk of nearly two Nords. When in full battle armour, he was an almost unstoppable force on the battlefield. The Elf's cruel smile swiftly returned, however, as he remembered that Gorgoth could neither reach nor harm him.

"Must be nice to just rip someone apart like some kind of monster," the Dunmer continued. "But, look at you. Caged by Imperials. You must be the one Orc weakling..." The annoying mer descended into cackling that sounded half mad.

Gorgoth bared his large canines. While he'd never use them for actual fighting – he had far better tools to use for battle – they were sometimes good for intimidation. The Dark Elf didn't seem so cowed, but at least he did stop laughing. "Where am I?" growled the Orcish warrior-shaman. His voice was as deep as he was massive.

The Dunmer burst into yet more peals of laughter. They seemed to bore into the hole in Gorgoth's head. "Oh, you really are as dumb as you look, Orc filth," sneered the Dark Elf. "You're in the Imperial prison. It's going to be your home for the rest of your life. Which won't be long. You're the last one left..." with this last comment, the Dunmer went into paroxysms of glee, clutching his sides as he howled with laughter.

Gorgoth looked along the corridor. As far as he could see, the other cells were mostly empty... apart from some pools of blood on the floor. His good eyesight meant he could recognise them. Orc blood. So all his comrades had died, on the battlefield or on the gallows. He turned back to the annoying Dunmer, who was still raving.

"You're going to die, in here, Orc! You're going to _die_! Like an animal in a cage!" The Dark Elf doubled over in laughter. His grey hair was lank and his body wasted away from long years in jail.

"Obviously, I'm not going to die in _here_," retorted Gorgoth. "Unless you've never heard of an execution ground? A gallows? I doubt they would execute a prisoner in his own cell." It made perfect sense to kill him elsewhere; a skilled, determined or crazy prisoner might well ambush his executioners. Besides, public executions could entertain the masses, or appease witnesses. The other prisoner didn't seem too fazed by Gorgoth's logic, breaking into yet more mad rhetoric. Gorgoth ignored him and moved back into his cell. The pounding in his head had grown into a full-blown headache, and the Dunmer wasn't helping. Normally, such an ailment would be easy to cure, but... he tried healing himself again. His magicka was still reduced to a trickle by the damned spell.

The Orc's amber eyes searched for a way out. The window and door were out of the question. There was a small, but wide indentation to the wall on the left of his cell, but the bricks looked the same as they did everywhere. The warrior-shaman ran his hands over the walls, but they were firmly cemented in place and possibly magically reinforced. There was no way out. The Imperial prison was renowned for the impossibility of escape from within its walls. Maybe he was going to die. But Gorgoth was known for his determination. He would never give up while he still had life in him. And if a necromancer came across his corpse, he would find material for a very determined, very large zombie. The Orc shook his head and snorted at such ridiculous thoughts. The Imperials probably incinerated executed prisoners to save space. Gorgoth ended this pessimistic line of thought and started wondering how long it would take for him to get his magicka back.

Realising that he needed rest to try and clear his head, Gorgoth sighed as he slowly lowered himself onto his ragged bedroll. Most of his body was fine, but that didn't stop him feeling like he'd been beaten by Malacath himself. The Orc was no stranger to pain, and could endure and ignore all but the most severe, but that didn't mean he found it easy to sleep with two shattered ribs. Eventually he fell into a light doze, disturbed by dreams of his fallen compatriots and their dead dream of justice.

* * *

**A/N: I appreciate reviews. If I'm able, I'll reply to every non-anonymous review I get (and anonymous reviews for the latest chapters get replies in the next chapter's Author's Notes). They definitely help, so try to leave some; it need only take a few minutes (or even less), and that's not much to ask, given that I've spent a year and a half on this already...**


	2. Hope

**A/N: Don't grow to expect updates this quickly, I only managed to get this up here as soon as I did because it's short.**

**CallumDaGrouch123: Thanks for reviewing, wasn't expecting that much from this old corner of the site. I didn't actually notice your own, similarly named story until I'd already posted mine... a facepalmworthy moment. Anyhow, the chapter is short, so is this one, and I normally prefer the long chapter myself, so expect longer ones in future. About Orcs, it's true, they are great, though ingame I normally use Redguards. I just thought writing about an Orc would be better because they have more potential.**

**Enough from me...**

* * *

**Chapter Two: Hope**

Gorgoth grunted as he woke. His head was pounding less, the pain seeming to concentrate around the hole. He slowly opened his eyes. The light spilling in from the window was now at a different angle, telling him that he'd been asleep for a few hours and it was early afternoon. As he sat up, blinking in the light, his side still hammered at him relentlessly. He focused a healing spell on his head. The wound closed, and the headache ceased. Gorgoth wiped off the dried blood as he slowly stood, gritting his teeth at the pain from his ribs.

"Good time for an execution!" sung the Dunmer across from him. Gorgoth uttered a short prayer to Malacath to make his end slow and painful. Maybe a Dark Brotherhood assassin could skin him alive the day before his release. The Orsimer shook his head and stopped fantasising. It was pointless. Instead he focused on his magicka. The Silence spell was still there, but it had worn off sufficiently enough for him to be able to channel enough magicka to heal his shattered ribs. The huge Orc grunted as he felt his ribs restructure and put themselves back into place.

"Not often you brutes are seen using magic," mused the Dark Elf, having seen the light blue healing aura that had engulfed the massive Orsimer. "It's surprising sometimes to see a relative of the simple rock do something as complex as breathe, let alone cast a spell..." his voice trailed off as Gorgoth stamped over to the cell door, fists clenching and a murderous look in his yellow eyes.

"What's your name, ash-scum?" growled Gorgoth. The Dunmer drew back slightly, as though Gorgoth's very breath was infectious.

"Valen Dreth!" cried the Dark Elf with pride in his voice. "Remember it, I'll be famous some day!" Dreth continued rambling, unaware of how delusional he sounded.

"Well, _Dreth_," rumbled Gorgoth, spitting the name, "If we both ever get out of here, if you see me, submit. It may make your end less painful, and it would save me the effort of hunting you down." With a snarl added for effect, Gorgoth turned back into his cell, sitting back down against the wall. There was simply no point in being stoic on the exterior at the given moment; there was no one around to take advantage of any display of emotion.

Dreth seemed unfazed. He was probably accustomed to the threats, or just stark, raving mad. Possibly both. "I wasn't lying when I said you'd die in here, Orc!" he raved, waving his arms around, spit flying from his mouth. Gorgoth wondered if he was rabid, like many of the dogs in Orsinium. "You hear that? The guards are coming! For you!" Dreth's voice faded away into mad giggles.

Gorgoth raised his eyes to the door; there were indeed guards coming; the clink of metal boots on the stone floor of the corridor was unmistakeable to his trained ears. Well, if the end had come, he would face it on his feet, fighting to the end, like the proud warrior he was; only cowards ended their days shivering in fear, huddled up in the corner of a cell. The huge Orc hauled himself to his feet and stood in the centre of his cell, feet planted, fists ready for their last use on Nirn. Unless, of course, a necromancer found his body.

A guard walked into Gorgoth's line of sight, halting outside his cell. The Orc snorted; he could tell from the shape of their body that it was a woman. They thought to shame him by having a woman drag him out. He'd snap her neck like a twig. Then something gave the shaman pause. Her armour wasn't the standard Legion armour. It was enamelled, and looked not only more ceremonial, but more sturdy than normal Legion armour. He was looking at one of the Blades.

A second Blade joined the first, this one a man. Gorgoth got a glimpse into his helmet. An Imperial. Thoughts raced through Gorgoth's head. Taking on two Blades while unarmed might be a possibility for him, but why were they even here? Did they think that he, as a shaman, was part of a wider conspiracy? Or was it a prisoner mix-up? He couldn't tell from the face of the male Blade; he looked as confused as Gorgoth was.

The female turned her head to look at him. She had the eyes of a hawk, and her voice was as sharp as a whip: "What's this prisoner doing here? This cell is supposed to be off limits!" She turned to the other Blade, her body language clearly demanding a swift answer. A captain, then. By the way the other Blade struggled to provide a feeble excuse, Gorgoth surmised that his cell was important somehow, and he was a spanner in the works. He kept in his combat stance. He was ready to go down fighting. By now a third figure had joined the others, but was still in shadow; all Gorgoth could tell was that they were dressed in robes.

The captain shook her head in exasperation. "Bah. Useless Watch. We can't dwell on this, however. We need to get the Emperor to safety."

A less controlled man would have probably gaped as they realised that the Emperor of Tamriel was about to enter their prison cell. As it was, Gorgoth, whose control of his emotions was almost always impeccable, only quirked an eyebrow. The cell door swung open with a screech as its rusted hinges complained. The Imperial stepped into the cell, katana drawn. Gorgoth bent his knees slightly, feet apart, fists at the ready. But the Blade merely pointed with his katana. "You. Prisoner. Over there, by the window." Gorgoth complied, walking backwards, never taking his eyes off the Imperial's sword arm. The Blade nodded slightly, and lowered his weapon to his side. "Good. Stay there, and nobody gets hurt." Gorgoth had already turned his attention to the man who wielded the most power in Tamriel.

To the Orc's surprise, Emperor Uriel Septim VII was looking at this slab of green muscle with an expression of shock. The Emperor was an old man, lank grey hair framing a wrinkled face. But the eyes were full of an almost feverish intensity. Uriel pushed past the Imperial Blade and reached up to clutch Gorgoth's shoulder. "You... I've seen you..." he stammered.

The Blades seemed as confused as Gorgoth, all of them exchanging glances. The third Blade appearing in the doorway, a Redguard, hadn't escaped Gorgoth's notice. Uriel was staring into Gorgoth's eyes, studying his face. A slow look of horrific recognition crossed his features. "Then this is the day..." the Emperor released Gorgoth and stepped back. "Gods give me strength!" Uriel seemed to be wordlessly praying to the Nine Divines, eyes closed, lips moving silently. The Blade captain shrugged and turned back to examining the wall for no apparent reason.

Gorgoth decided to butt into the Emperor's internal monologue: "What's going on here?" It definitely seemed like an odd occurrence. Either way, the Emperor probably wasn't here to kill him.

Uriel's eyes snapped open. He looked a bit more rational now, as though he had thought the situation through and now knew how to deal with it. "Assassins attacked and killed my sons. All of them. And now I'm next." The Emperor said this with such calmness that Gorgoth felt perturbed. It wasn't every day a man faced his own death while knowing he had no heirs left, and the Emperor was speaking as though he knew that his fate was already sealed. Uriel continued: "My Blades are leading me through an old escape route, which, coincidentally, runs right through your cell." Gorgoth looked around blankly, seeing no escape route, unless they planned to somehow throw the Emperor out of the window.

However, that very second, the captain pounded her fist down on a brick level with her head. There was a grinding and creaking as the indented section of wall slid open like a door to reveal a dark passageway. Gorgoth raised an eyebrow, nodding in appreciation. He turned back to the Emperor.

"Maybe the Gods have placed you here, for a purpose that only they understand." Uriel seemed to be smiling inwardly at something. Gorgoth didn't get the joke.

"I go my own way," he grunted. "I'm no pawn to be pushed around by your Gods." The captain glared at the Orc as she lit her torch. No doubt they all followed the doctrine of the Imperial Nine Divines.

"We all have our own destiny," replied Uriel in semi-agreement. Without another word, he stepped down into the passage behind the captain. The Imperial blade sheathed his katana and followed.

The Redguard paused as he stepped past Gorgoth. "Looks like this is your lucky day," he grinned, a sparkle of mirth in his young eyes. "Just stay out of our way." With that, he too was gone. Gorgoth stepped over to the entrance of the passage, his black hair, arranged into a pair of long, thick war braids, brushing the dusty ceiling. Abruptly, a corner of his mouth turned up briefly - the equivalent of a broad smile on another man - and he walked over to his now closed cell door. Dreth was watching with wide eyes.

"I can get you out," said Gorgoth. Dreth was so pathetically enthusiastic he failed to notice the evil gleam in the Orc's eyes. "Trust me, take my hand, and I can get you out." Gorgoth stretched his arm almost as far as it could go, covering over half the width of the corridor. Dreth eagerly stretched and grasped it.

Suddenly, the Dunmer was flopping around like a slaughterfish out of water, his mouth wide open but unable to scream because of the sheer pain of every bone in his hand being crushed beyond recognition. Gorgoth's incessant training and natural sheer strength meant he could apply enormous pressure to something such as a Dark Elf's hand, and at that moment he was squeezing as hard as he could. The Orc, after a few more seconds, unclenched his hand and withdrew back into his cell. Dreth, his right hand now an unrecognisable pulp, was rolling around on the floor, moaning in agony. Gorgoth glared at the pathetic waste of life for a few seconds before turning back to the exposed passageway. His ticket out of here. His method of evading execution. His freedom. The massive warrior-shaman didn't look back at his old cell as he started jogging down the passage.


	3. Freedom

**A/N: Here it is, the first chapter produced that has a respectable length. I'll be trying for longer chapters from here on in, but a chapter ends when it ends, I guess...**

**Arty Thrip: I'll review Brothers in Arms when I get the time, unfortunately, time is a luxury for me at the moment...**

* * *

**Chapter Three: Freedom**

Gorgoth was full of optimism as he jogged down the passage, away from his cell, away from the annoying Dunmer, away from his execution. He silently thanked Malacath for this opportunity of freedom; he hoped that the Daedric Prince hadn't seen his capture as weakness. The shaman's bare feet made little noise on the slabs of stone as he moved; the layer of dust was enough to reduce noise. This tunnel had obviously been unused for many decades. Torches cast flickering shadows over the walls as Gorgoth moved past, probably lit by the Emperor's party as they moved forward.

A rat skeleton crunched under Gorgoth's huge feet as he moved down some steps. While the Orc wasn't the most informed about architecture he knew the basics, and knew that this passage was ancient. His ears picked up murmurings from ahead, and he slowed his pace to a walk. He didn't want to disturb the Emperor and his bodyguards; they had seemed on edge, for good reason. If assassins had managed to kill all three heirs, there was no reason why they wouldn't strike at the Emperor himself. He could see the three Blades and Uriel up ahead; the passage was widening out. Gorgoth kept well back. He didn't want to have his newfound freedom cut short by a jumpy Blade.

His eyes, better adjusted to working in darkness due to his race, spotted movement amongst the pillars flanking the passage. Robed figures were nodding to each other. Gorgoth knew it was trouble. He was rushing forward, yelling a warning, even before the battle cries started.

"_For Lord Dagon_!" roared one of the robed figures, launching himself off the balcony and at the Blades, who were drawing their katanas. Mid-jump, the assassin was surrounded by the shimmering orange sparks that indicated that bound armour had been summoned. The sparks cleared to reveal black armour the Gorgoth didn't recognise.

He didn't hesitate. The Blades were outnumbered, and Gorgoth was prepared to bet that they would treat an innocent bystander better than these assassins would. The Silence spell was still active, but he disregarded it as he charged into the fray, past the Emperor, who, shortsword drawn, had been pushed back into a corner by his bodyguards.

"_Dawn is break_-" the assassin didn't have a chance to finish his sentence, or to complete his swing aimed at the captain. Gorgoth barrelled into him at full speed, the speed and weight of the huge Orc sending them both crashing down the stairs. They came to a halt at the bottom, the assassin screaming in agony as his leg broke with a sharp snap; he'd landed awkwardly and it couldn't withstand the weight of both of them. Gorgoth reared back and slammed his right fist into the masked face. The mask looked terrifying but wasn't strong enough to stop Gorgoth's punch from shattering the assassin's jaw. The Orc took hold of the whimpering assassin's head and violently twisted it to the right. With a final spasm, the orange sparks signalled that the spell was dissipating due to its caster's death. Gorgoth was already rushing back up the stairs into the fray. He'd only been gone for a few seconds.

The Emperor's bodyguards were all embattled, each dealing with an assassin, the captain dealing with two at once. Gorgoth moved in to even the odds, kicking him in the back of his left knee to topple him. The captain took the opportunity and stabbed him in the chest, sparks encompassing his body indicating death. However, this gave the other assassin an opening to bring his mace down on the captain's exposed head. A weak fireball from Gorgoth slammed into the mace; the assassin's hand was barely singed, but his mace flew into the pillars and disappeared. The captain turned and decapitated the bewildered agent. Cries of death and the shimmering of sparks indicated that the other two Blades had taken down their respective assailants. Gorgoth relaxed slightly.

The Blades cleaned their katanas on the robes of their enemies, sheathed them, and regrouped with the Emperor. Gorgoth was going through the pockets of the assassins. He found nothing; they'd conjured all they needed. Leaning back on a nearby pillar, he turned his attention to the discussion. It appeared quite animated, with the Imperial Blade gesturing freely with his hands, and the captain refuting him. The Redguard was wary, looking everywhere at once, and the Emperor was ignoring it all and watching Gorgoth. The Orc shaman simply waited it out; he had patience.

Eventually the arm-waving ended and the Emperor and his bodyguards restarted their journey to supposed safety. Gorgoth, still weaponless and armourless, fell in slightly behind the Redguard, who was bringing up the rear. He wasn't sure why, but he was starting to feel like he had an obligation to protect the Emperor. It would make sense, Gorgoth mused; Uriel was close to granting Orsinium provincial status, elevating it to the status of the other provinces. Gorgoth inwardly smiled at the thought of Gortwog's realm being equal to High Rock.

The Captain was cursing as she twisted a rusty key in an ancient wooden door. It was reinforced with rusted steel bars and looked like it had never been opened. The other Imperial Blade stepped forward to help the captain, and together they managed to turn the key, prompting a terrible screech of tortured metal as the door swung open to reveal yet another passageway. Uriel and his Blades swiftly moved through it. Gorgoth tried to follow, but, understandably, the Blades weren't being too trusting.

"You stay here, prisoner," warned the Redguard as he swung the door shut. "Don't try to follow us." With that the door was closed, and Gorgoth's ears picked up the sound of the Blades struggling with the lock again. He wandered over to a pillar and slid down to sit on the dusty floor, his back to the cold stone. He listened to the Blades finally succeed in locking the door, and then their footsteps were receding.

Gorgoth felt despair threatening to rise and ruthlessly crushed it down. He had no time for weakness. But his situation seemed hopeless. The door in front of him was locked and secure. The only way back was to his cell, and if he knew Dreth, that rat would have called the guard and informed him of his fellow prisoner's escape. Gorgoth's lip curled into a snarl at the thought of returning meekly to his execution. A deep growl erupted from his throat as he surged to his feet. Gorgoth gro-Kharz would not meet his end on a gibbet at the hands of Imperial guardsmen.

"_I will not die like some cornered rat_!" he bellowed, his powerful voice shaking dust from the rafters and making a few loose stones tremble. The mighty Orc hurled himself at the door barring him from his freedom. The rust had weakened the steel reinforcements, and they gave slightly under the weight of a seven-foot Orc warrior throwing himself at them. Gorgoth backed up and went in again. There was a snap as the central beam of wood broke in half and caved inwards. Another charge led to more planks breaking. Gorgoth was now kicking the door relentlessly, the steel bending and warping as the planks were forced further and further inwards. He could see light through the shattered middle section. With a roar he put everything into one final charge.

The thundering sound of wood splintering and shattering heralded Gorgoth's unceremonial entrance through the door. The shaman toppled to the floor, surrounded by splinters, a good few sticking in his thick Orcish hide. He was back on his feet within seconds, alert for any danger.

Gorgoth was alone in the passage. If the Blades had heard him, they weren't reacting. Odd. The Orc had made enough noise to wake the dead, and the Blades had a right to be suspicious. He ignored the splinters in his feet and side and hurried off down the passage. He sincerely hoped the Emperor wasn't dead. Uriel did happen to be the reason that Gorgoth was still alive and not being hung like the rest of his comrades. The warrior-shaman broke into a jog as his ears picked up shouts and the sound of metal on metal up ahead. The passage was widening again.

The three Blades were constricted into a bottleneck, struggling to deal with six of the bound-armour clad assassins. Once again, Gorgoth didn't hesitate. He picked up one of the assassins that was attacking the Redguard and brought his back down on Gorgoth's upraised knee. The crack of the man's spine breaking echoed along the corridor, but was immediately drowned out by warcries. Gorgoth unceremoniously shoved the body off his knee and charged into the fray once more, spinning an assassin round and punching him twice in the ribs then the face. As he staggered back, he was impaled by the Redguard's katana. Sparks shimmered around him and Gorgoth was already turning back to the Emperor.

Uriel was wiping his shortsword, a dead assassin at his feet. The other two Blades were finishing off the last agent, who didn't seem to care that he had no chance of winning. Gorgoth felt a rough hand on his shoulder, turning him round to face the Redguard.

"How did you get through that door?" he asked, a look of suspicion on his face. "That lock was magically reinforced. No way you could have picked or smashed it." He had a right to be suspicious.

"The lock might have been reinforced," replied Gorgoth. "But the door wasn't. How do you think I got all these splinters?" The Redguard looked down at Gorgoth's side. The splinters would have been unnoticeable in the heat of battle, but under close inspection, some parts of the Orc resembled a porcupine.

The Redguard merely nodded. "As I expected. We didn't actually expect you to go back to your cell like some placid fool. You looked bloody strong. Now Glenroy owes me ten drakes." The Redguard smiled slightly. The Imperial Blade's mouth was twisted into a grimace. "Name's Baurus, by the way." The Blade seemed oddly trusting suddenly. At least the captain hadn't given the order to attack.

Gorgoth shook Baurus' extended hand, but before further pleasantries could be exchanged the captain interrupted them. "Baurus, what the hell are you playing at? For all we know, he could be working with them." She had a hand on the hilt of her katana and was wearing an angry expression.

"He's a prisoner, not long in Cyrodiil from the looks of him. I doubt-" Baurus' reply was cut short by Uriel holding up a hand.

"He is not one of them. He will help us." The Emperor lowered his hand and the volume of his voice. "He _must_ help us." Uriel turned back to Gorgoth. "Come closer. I'd prefer not to have to shout."

Gorgoth moved closer, the captain stepping out of his way. He made sure to keep his fists unclenched and down by his sides; no need to make the Blades think he was a threat. The Emperor leaned in closer to him and reached up to place a hand on his shoulder. His voice was soft yet his eyes, once again, were feverish with intensity. "They cannot understand why I trust you. For good reason. But they have not seen what I have seen..." Uriel seemed to be thinking hard. "How can I explain...? Listen. You know of the Nine Divines? How they guide our fates with an invisible hand?"

Gorgoth snorted. "Your precious Divines might be real enough, but they've never shaped my fate. No-one does. My fate is my own." The Orc wasn't as disdainful of the Nine as other followers of Malacath were –he'd seen evidence of their power – but that didn't mean that he respected them.

Uriel grunted in response, but didn't look surprised. He'd clearly suspected such an answer. "I've served the Nine all my days, and I chart my course by the cycles of the heavens. The skies are marked with numberless sparks, each a fire, and every one a sign. I know these stars well, and I wonder... which sign marked your birth?"

Gorgoth hadn't anticipated the question. He could think of hundreds of more relevant questions to ask in their current situation. But astronomers saw power in birthsigns, even if few others did. "I was born on the second, Last Seed, 3E 405, under the sign of the Warrior," he grunted in reply. For some people, that fact helped them explain his large stature and skill with mace and armour. Gorgoth preferred to think that he had earned that skill by training and experience.

Uriel nodded, as though he had been expecting that answer. "Today the Warrior shall prove a stalwart companion when fortune fades." His voice held conviction, as though he believed that some constellations in the night sky could really affect someone's destiny.

Gorgoth simply grunted and focused on matters at hand. "Where are we going?" he asked. He didn't intend to keep talking to the Emperor until a whole army of assassins descended apon them.

"I go to my grave." The simplicity of the words, and the quiet conviction behind them, shocked Gorgoth. He himself wasn't afraid of death –everyone died, sooner or later – but the Emperor seemed resigned and acquainted to his impending fate in a way that surprised the Orc. Uriel continued. "A tongue shriller than all the music calls me. You shall follow me yet for a while, then we must part." As he finished speaking, Uriel motioned to the visibly impatient captain, who led the way forward. Gorgoth fell in behind the Emperor, still slightly awed by the way the old man was staring into the face of death with such calm and determination. When Gorgoth died, he knew he would fight it every step of the way, but it was as though Uriel had already made peace with himself and was friends with death.

This line of thought was interrupted by the arrival of three agents. One was swiftly dispatched by the captain almost before he had a chance to summon his armour. One threw himself onto Glenroy, taking them both to the floor, leaving the way free to the Emperor for the third assassin. Uriel didn't even bother with his sword; he simply raised both hands, lightning shooting from his palms and smashing into the assassin, the huge power of the bolts causing him to spasm uncontrollably. Gorgoth smelt burning flesh as the agent dropped to the floor, definitely dead.

There was a gurgle from the other assassin as Glenroy sliced his stomach open and got to his feet, kicking the spark-enveloped figure away. Gorgoth gave a respectful nod to the Emperor; his skill with words was well known; his power as a mage less so.

Moving on through passages that looked the same a lot of the time, but always hid danger, Uriel, Gorgoth, and the Blades saw off any danger, with the ancient halls ringing with warcries, the clash of metal on metal, and the dying screams of the assassins. The Silence spell was wearing off at an increasing rate, meaning that Gorgoth could fight with a summoned mace. Dispel magics weren't doing a thing, but, for now, Gorgoth was prepared to wait it out.

Stairs descended into a wide open area flanked by balconies. Glenroy wisely went first to take a look. On the all-clear, the party moved forward, only to find him hammering futilely at a barred gate. "The gate is barred from the other side, damn it!" he shouted, his frustration evident. "It's a trap!"

Gorgoth looked around, noting that it was a good place for a trap; plenty of opportunities for an ambuscade. "What about that side passage back there?" suggested the ever-observant Baurus, nodding towards the named narrow passageway.

"Worth a try, let's go," commanded the captain, leading the way through, katana drawn. Gorgoth fell in behind the Emperor, conjured mace ready. His own mace, an ancient artefact of great power, was gone; he'd accepted that fact. It had been a good mace; longer than usual for longer reach and a lot more power, not to mention it's unique enchantment. Gorgoth liked his maces long, and this was reflected in his summoned mace; it was at least a foot longer than equivalents. The Orc was strong enough to heft it as though it weighed nothing.

The passage opened into a square, small room. There were no other exits. "It's a dead end," muttered Glenroy, deciding to state the obvious. All the Blades looked around futilely for another exit; there were none. A clattering in the corridor behind them was swiftly followed by the unmistakable soft sound of multiple conjuration spells.

"They're behind us!" yelled the captain. "Stay here, sire," she said to the Emperor. Turning to Gorgoth, she added: "Guard him with your life." She turned away and led the Blades in a charge down the corridor and into the amassing assassins, each roaring battle cries as they launched themselves into the hideously overwhelming enemy.

"_For the Emperor_!"

"You think we'd go down easy?"

"In the name of the-" Glenroy's full-voiced shout was cut short by an assassin smashing a mace into his side. The melee closed in, hiding most of the details from Gorgoth's view.

The Orc hadn't realised that he had put himself between the door and the Emperor. The battle outside wasn't going well, but Gorgoth knew that whatever the outcome, the agents would have to come through him to get what they came for. He settled into a combat stance, mace at the ready, eyes flashing with anger. In that moment, he knew what it was like to be a Blade; his blood before the Emperor's. An assassin curled his way around Baurus and launched himself down the passage. Gorgoth moved to meet him with a strong, slow smash to the ribs. The agent was slammed into the wall with such force a few bricks rolled loose. His armour disappeared in a sea of sparks as Gorgoth smashed his mace into the masked face.

Gorgoth felt a familiar hand on his shoulder, and turned to find the Emperor staring at him with a calm intensity in his eyes. It was the look of a man who knew his fate had come. In his spare hand was the amulet that normally hung round his neck. Uriel began speaking in a powerful, imperious voice, forming his words clearly. Like a man who knew these were his last words.

"My guards are strong and true, but even the might of the Blades cannot stand against the Power that rises to destroy us. The Prince of Destruction awakes, born anew in blood and fire. These cutthroats are but his mortal pawns. Take my Amulet. Give it to Jauffre. I have a secret son, and Jauffre alone knows where to find him." Gorgoth felt the amulet being pressed into his free hand, Uriel folding his green fingers around it, protecting it. The Emperor continued: "Find the last of my blood, and close shut the marble jaws of Oblivion."

Gorgoth was still struggling to understand as a stone panel next to the Emperor slid open. Gorgoth couldn't react fast enough as an assassin rushed in and thrust a dagger into the base of Uriel's skull. A wordless roar erupted from Gorgoth's throat as Emperor Uriel Septim VII, ruler of Tamriel for sixty-five years, crumpled at his feet.

"Stanger... you chose a bad day to take up the cause of the Septims," spat the assassin, summoning a mace. The sneer was evident in his voice. Gorgoth's eyes narrowed, flashing with anger, as he slammed his mace into the side of the agent's head. With the sound of an overripe melon exploding, the only successful assassin was thrown across the room, armour and mace disappearing. Gorgoth turned back to Uriel's body to see Baurus kneeling over it, a look of utter defeat crumpling his features. The captain had her arm around Glenroy and was struggling to set him down easily; the Imperial's face was a mask of pure pain as he clutched his shattered ribs.

"No... Talos save us..." muttered Baurus, his voice heavy with grief as he closed Uriel's eyes. At least it had been quick. Gorgoth let his mace fade from existence.

The captain slid down the wall to slump beside Glenroy. Half her face was covered with blood from a nasty cut on her scalp. She tossed off her helmet and buried her face in her arms. Glenroy was struggling with his cuirass straps so he could assess the damage to his ribs. All three Blades looked defeated, smashed, broken.

Baurus's head snapped up. "Where's the Amulet of Kings?" he asked, looking straight at Gorgoth. His gaze moved to Gorgoth's left hand as he held it up. The captain raised her head, and Glenroy stopped fiddling with his bent cuirass. They all looked expectantly at Gorgoth.

"He gave it to me," Gorgoth explained. "He told me to take it to Jauffre. Apparently... apparently he had a secret son." His fingers clenched around the Amulet, and he lowered his fist. He knew he would fulfil the Emperor's dying wish. It felt like his duty.

"He saw something in you. Trusted you." Baurus was nodding in understanding. "It's the Dragon Blood. He could see things others can't." Suddenly, a flicker of hope spread through the room. It was almost tangible. "A secret son? Then this might not be the end of the bloodline..." Baurus exchanged hopeful glances with his fellow Blades. "I never heard of such a thing, but Jauffre would know," said Baurus, retuning his gaze to Gorgoth. "He's the Grandmaster of the Blades. You can find him in Weynon Priory, near Chorrol."

Gorgoth nodded in understanding. He knew what he had to do. But there was a barrier. "I've never been to Cyrodiil before," he muttered. "Where's Chorrol?" He had been born and brought up in Orsinium, many hundreds of miles from the heart of the Empire.

The captain struggled to her feet and wrenched a faded parchment from a small bag tied to her sword belt. She handed it to him, pointing out the major cities of the Imperial province. "Chorrol's just over here," she explained, pointing to a fairly large town west of the sprawling Imperial city. "Just go over the bridge and follow the Black Road until you reach Chorrol." She made sure he understood before heading over to help Glenroy with his armour.

"What will you do?" Gorgoth asked.

"We'll stay to guard the Emperor's body," replied Baurus. "You need to head up through the sewers to get out of here. Here's the key to the sewer grate." The Redguard handed Gorgoth a key slightly less rusty than the one used on the now-broken door back near the prison. "There are rats and goblins up there, but, I don't think you'll need to worry about them." Baurus grinned slightly. "Warrior by trade, am I right?"

"Warrior-shaman, to be exact," replied Gorgoth, looking towards Glenroy. He and the captain had got his armour off, revealing massive bruising and deep gashes all over the Imperial's side. He was biting his lip to keep from groaning as the captain wound bandages around the wound. Apparently, they had no healing potions left. Gorgoth snorted.

"You call yourself bodyguards and don't know any Restoration," he muttered, half to himself, as he sent streams of healing magic into Glenroy's body. The Silence spell was near insignificant now. The Imperial's ribs snapped back together and the bruising cleared, leaving unbroken, undamaged pale skin. Glenroy murmured a thanks as he started pulling his armour back on. Gorgoth simply grunted and headed down the passage the assassin had come from.

"Good luck," Baurus called after him. Gorgoth acknowledged it with another grunt as he squeezed through the narrow passage.

The sewer grate opened after some persuasion and much twisting of the rusted key. Gorgoth ignored the foul smell as he splashed through the sludge and excrement. He'd seen far worse. The rats were no more than a nuisance, and the goblins fell prey to his spells easily enough. By the time Gorgoth was almost at the end of the sewers, the Silence spell had faded completely. A ray of sunlight on the horizon for him. He'd evaded execution, and the last lingering physical effect of his failure in Orsinium was gone. He was ready for whatever Cyrodiil could throw at him.

The sewer grate opened with a rusty screech. Gorgoth bent slightly so he could get through, then straightened as sunlight engulfed his body. The blue waters of Lake Rumare sparkled in the sunlight. The white pillars of a ruin nearby shone, reflecting the sun's rays. Gorgoth stepped away from the sewer grate and took a deep breath. The fresh air filling his lungs smelt like... freedom.


	4. Blood and Iron

**A/N: Well, here's the next bit. More reviews would help, though thanks to Arty Thrip for becoming a semi-regular reviewer. Yes, there WILL be a lot of detail, not only on the Main Quest, but also a bit of the Arena and another Guild. Anyhow, read on.  
**

* * *

**Chapter Four: Blood and Iron**

The sunlight felt good on Gorgoth's rough skin as he crunched his way down the shingle to the water's edge. The deep blue reflection of the sky gave way to sparkling, clear water that was attractive to an Orc who'd just fought a near-continuous battle after hours without slaking his thirst. Gorgoth knelt and splashed his head under, drinking without restraint. A few mudcrabs skittered away from the giant intruder. After a few more seconds, the warrior-shaman straightened, water dripping from his pair of sodden black braids, which - uncut since childhood - hung to his waist. He stood and surveyed his surroundings.

The early afternoon sun was high overhead in a sky nearly free of clouds. It beat down on Gorgoth, warming his skin, drying his face. Across Lake Rumare, a ruin stood, shattered. Its once-proud architecture was now lying in ruins, the white stone reflecting the sunlight, sometimes in all the colours of the rainbow. The Orc admired it for a few seconds, then disregarded it. If he was going to get to Chorrol, then he needed proper clothes, food, and preferably a weapon and armour not dependant on magicka. It wasn't likely that he'd find any of those in a ruin.

Gorgoth turned around. Above him, about half a mile away, stood the bleak grey walls of the Imperial Prison. Beyond that, White Gold Tower rose into the sky, a mighty spear thrusting at the heavens. The Orc started trudging up the hill. Walking past the prison and into the city would be suicide; he'd have to hike the way round to the enormous front gate of the city. Gorgoth set off at a jog.

Just because the Imperial City was located on the island didn't mean it couldn't provide a home for some hostile wildlife. Gorgoth had to fireball a couple of hungry wolves, then bash an imp's head in. He could tell that the populace didn't come to this section of the island often; better to stay behind their safe walls than risk the aggressive local fauna. Good for alchemists who didn't want to be disturbed, but otherwise largely ignored. This made it easy for Gorgoth, potentially a wanted mer as an escaped prisoner, to go easily unnoticed as he passed within a quarter of a mile of the Imperial Prison.

The bridge across Lake Rumare was both vast and impressive. However, the approaching Orc didn't have time to ponder over Imperial stonework; his attention had turned to the equally massive gates to the city, which were open. The road down to the bridge wasn't crowded or packed by any means, but there was still a constant flow of traffic that was fairly large in volume. The Imperial City was the centre of Imperial power, and that made it an important hub.

This traffic made it possible for Gorgoth to slip in unnoticed by the gate guards. In his prison rags, alone, he would have attracted unwanted attention. He was unsure if his description had been passed along yet, or if the Blades had cleared up any problems. Either way, Gorgoth wasn't about to take unnecessary risks. Keeping a low profile was a priority until he could get something approaching normal clothes. He didn't want to have to explain why a seven-foot Orc in prison rags was walking around the Imperial city with the Amulet of Kings in his pocket.

The Market District was his first priority. However, having never been to Cyrodiil, let alone the Imperial City before, all Gorgoth could do, apart from ask directions, was follow the wagons full of goods, in the hope that they were going to the Market District. It was logical that they would go to the markets to sell or offload their wares.

In this case, Gorgoth's normally undeniable logic failed him. Instead of ending up in a market full of people from every walk of life buying and selling, he instead found himself standing in front of the Imperial Arena, with gladiators practising all around him. The wagon he'd followed had been delivering supplies to the hungry gladiators. Apparently, fighting for one's life to appease a baying crowd was hungry work. Gorgoth was now completely lost.

He was about to turn round to try to get a bearing when a Bosmer standing by a huge iron chest spoke up. "Hello, good sir," he chirped, in that annoying voice that Wood Elves seemed to perfect before they could even speak. "Will you be betting on a match?"

Gorgoth looked at him – merely looked – and the short mer shrank back. The two burly guards hefted their cudgels and attempted to look menacing. "OK, I take it you want to join in, then?" squeaked the Bosmer. He held out a trembling finger, pointing to a large door opposite the entrance to the stands. "The bloodworks are down there. Talk to Owyn, the Blademaster." The Bosmer had now pressed himself back against the stone wall. Perhaps there was something innately intimidating about a huge Orc. Gorgoth didn't get this kind of reaction in Orsinium, unless he actively tried to accomplish something of the sort.

Gorgoth moved to turn around; he had no intention of putting his life on the line for sport when he had an amulet to deliver. However, a thought struck him; he had no money, and no easy means of building up any from scratch. Fighting in the Arena could possibly pay for clothes and a weapon. He might even be able to grab a bedroll on the bloodworks floor, if that was possible. Gorgoth sighed and kicked open the door. It swung shut behind him as he stepped into chaos.

The first thing that hit Gorgoth was the smell; the stench of blood slammed into his nostrils. Gorgoth was used to and not bothered by blood, but it seemed as though blood had become ingrained into every possible part of the bloodworks. He could now see how it got its name. Underneath the blood was sweat; the cramped space was full of gladiators swinging relentlessly at training dummies; to move across the room, Gorgoth had to dodge sharply several times, one near miss almost severing his left braid.

An Imperial, not looking where he was going, walked straight into Gorgoth's chest. He looked up at the Orc with an expression of fury that dwindled away to shock. Murmuring something unintelligible, he attempted to move past, but Gorgoth grabbed his shoulder.

"Where's Owyn?" growled the massive Orc. He wasn't prepared to wander around looking for the Blademaster and have his head chopped off by a stray sword.

The Imperial nodded in the direction of a grizzled Redguard, then twisted his way out of Gorgoth's grip. The Orc strode over to the indicated Redguard, who looked away from watching the gladiators practising to look over this new arrival.

"What do you want?" he spat, having taken a total of about three seconds to look Gorgoth up and down and classify him as a potential combatant. "If you're here to fight, say so and stop wasting my bloody time. It's precious enough as it is."

Gorgoth didn't point out that the Redguard seemed to spend most of his time standing around doing nothing but glare at the training gladiators; this wasn't the time for a confrontation. "I'm here to fight," he grunted. "How much do I get per match?"

"For a Pit Dog like you, fifty drakes if you win." Owyn spat again, his saliva mixing with the blood on the floor but not diluting it in any way. "I'm sure your thick skull would burst under pressure if I filled you in on everything." The irate Redguard folded his arms and leaned against the doorpost. "You wear a raiment at all times in the Arena. You fight for the Blue team against the Yellow team. You can't loot, and you only leave when the opponent dies. Got it?" Owyn barely waiting for Gorgoth's nod before indicating a row of large cabinets against the near wall. "Good. Get a raiment from a cabinet over there. Should be one near enough your size. Make sure it's blue."

Upon ripping the cabinet doors open, Gorgoth discovered a series of raiments, both light and heavy, that offered more protection than his rags, but not by much. Grunting in disgust at the poor quality of the armourers who had made these pieces of crap, Gorgoth pulled out the biggest, heaviest blue raiment he could find and tried it on. A bit tight across the chest, but any armour was better than no armour. Merely classing this as full-body armour was a farce; it offered no protection to the head, forearms, or most of the legs. Gorgoth worked his shoulders as he walked back over to Owyn, getting used to the armour.

"What are you staring at me for, you gormless mutt?" snarled the Redguard. "Get up that ramp and die well." He nodded towards a broad opening that led to a ramp, presumably leading to the sands of the Arena. He also didn't seem to care how Gorgoth had no visible weapon.

The Orc wasn't one to rely on his magic alone. In place of the conjured mace he'd been using, he plucked an iron mace from a weapon rack on the way to the blooded ramp. It was too short and rusty, but it was better than nothing. His other hand, he kept free. Other Orc warriors would use a shield, but Gorgoth preferred to have a hand ready to fling a spell. Using a shield in his off hand would limit his offensive magical options.

* * *

Owyn looked at the Orc as he walked steadily up the blood-soaked ramp, sure-footed, not slipping like the usual new recruits did. He was starting to change his opinion of the newest addition to the Arena. Normally, Orcs of his size mainly used their sheer strength in battle, but this one looked like he could use a good turn of speed, and keep his balance. The lack of a shield either indicated foolishness, foolish bravery, or the need to keep a hand free for magic use. Owyn decided not to dismiss this new Pit Dog out of hand just yet.

The Redguard felt a presence behind him and turned, to find a pale Orc looking past him at the Pit Dog. "Your opinion, Agronak?" he grunted. The reigning Grand Champion of the Arena was surprisingly good at judging potential.

"He's a good one. He's got huge strength, but he's fast, I can tell." Agronak gro-Malog's voice was deep and hearty, like most Orcs. The pale skin wasn't, and was part of his Imperial blood. Half-breed or not, there was no doubting his outstanding ability on the sands. The half-Orc was without doubt one of the best fighters to ever walk Nirn in the Third Era. This has predictably helped him see off all challengers with ease during his five-year reign.

"Didn't look like he had much on him. Could be just looking for a quick fifty drakes to spend on booze," snorted Owyn. "Either way, I'm interested." Without waiting for a response, the grizzled Redguard jogged through the Bloodworks to the access to the gladiator's stands, where gladiators could watch as their comrades did battle. He wasn't surprised to hear Agronak accompanying him.

* * *

Gorgoth had grown bored of the announcer's speech almost before it had begun. Poetic twaddle used to bring in the masses. Gorgoth snorted over such trivialities. He could see his opponent in the other team's barred area. A female Bosmer. Not much of a challenge by any means, but Gorgoth never underestimated anyone. It led to defeat. She was already gripping her longsword, and was clad in a light raiment, but Gorgoth couldn't see much more across the great distance that separated the two gladiator cages.

The sun was hot. His heavy raiment might cover little, and was no heavy weight on Gorgoth's broad shoulders, but it was still restrictive enough to make his pores clammy with sweat. He bounced the haft of his mace on the palm of his huge hand, contemptuous of its short length. But it would have to do. It was better than his bare fists, though he could kill easily enough with those, even without magic.

His left hand rose, and spells burst forth from his clenched fist, covering him with a glow that rapidly faded. Gorgoth always cast a small plethora of spells before battle. Shield spells to supplement his armour, spells that gave resistance to the elements, and spells that would attempt to absorb any magicka cast at him. He had been casting these spells for so long that they barely tapped into his large reserves of magicka. The Orc looked his opponent in the eye. He was ready.

Finally, the announcer finished his long, drawn-out, boring speech and the bars gave a protesting screech as they were lowered. The Bosmer dashed out across the sands at the same time that Gorgoth barrelled out from his own cage. She had less weight to pull, a lot less, but his legs were far longer and were used to carrying his immense bulk. The crowd's apprehension and lust for blood was almost tangible as the two warriors drew closer to each other, both running near enough flat out.

The Bosmer slowed and started swinging her sword as Gorgoth drew to within range. He didn't stop or even attempt to block, just adjusted his posture slightly and kept running. Before the Bosmer could complete her swing, or even comprehend what the warrior was doing, he had cannoned into her at full speed.

The massive impact took them both to the ground. The Bosmer screamed in agony as the huge Orc landed on top of her, the combination of his momentum and weight shattering several of her ribs and crushing her right arm. Her longsword dropped from her now-useless hand as she struggled vainly to get Gorgoth off her. He stood up and swung his mace in a high arc into her head. The blunt head penetrated her skull, forcing bone fragments and the crude iron mace head into her brain. Death was almost instant.

Gorgoth stood up amid the crowd roaring. The match had been far shorter than they had expected, but as most had bet on the huge Orc, most were happy. The announcer's voice broke out over the cheers and jeers as Gorgoth simply washed the assorted blood and brain fragments off his mace with magically conjured water, made by forming ice then melting it with fire. A very useful spell. The broken body of the Bosmer stared up at the sky with the never-ending glazed gaze of death. Despite her being forgotten by the announcer and the crowd already –no-one cared about a loser – Gorgoth knelt and closed her eyes before straightening and heading back to the bloodworks.

The warrior-shaman kept his balance easily on the blood-slicked ramp, idly wondering if anyone ever cleaned it. He walked around the basin in the centre of the small room leading to the bloodworks. He could feel the powerful magic in its waters, but had no need of it after not taking a scratch. Gorgoth marched over to Owyn, avoiding the occasional swing by over-exuberant gladiators.

"Too easy for a mammoth like you," growled the irate Redguard, tossing a small bag of coins to him. "Fifty drakes. Next time, you might actually have to work for it. Now get out of my sight." The Redguard spat, leaving Gorgoth wondering if he ever swallowed. The Orc turned on his heel and headed over to a less crowded area of the bloodworks. Sitting down on a tattered bedroll, he spilled out the gold coins into his palm and counted them. Fifty exactly. Grunting satisfactorily, Gorgoth refilled the bag and put it in his pocket. He looked up as another Orc sat down beside him.

This Orc was not only paler than any other Orc Gorgoth had ever seen, but he moved with the gait and posture of a master warrior. Gorgoth could instantly tell from his raiment that he was of importance in the Arena. Another odd thing was that the newcomer was smiling, and not a false smile. It was friendly, unlike the various other receptions Gorgoth had received in the bloodworks. The other thing that caught Gorgoth's trained eye was the Orc's weapon. It was a scimitar, made from finely crafted ebony. There were numerous scratches in the blade, indicating years of hard use. Gorgoth instantly felt respect for this warrior's ability, whoever he was.

"I'm Agronak gro-Malog, reigning Arena Grand Champion," greeted the Orc, offering his hand in greeting. Gorgoth shook it, interested that the Grand Champion would sit and talk with, as Owyn succinctly put it, a 'lowly Pit Dog'. Agronak continued: "I was watching your fight. You're not bad. A bit brutish, and crude, but I'm suspecting that was only because that Bosmer was simply no challenge for you."

Gorgoth nodded in agreement. "Comparable to infanticide, that was," he growled. "People actually pay to watch slaughter like that? I'd rather listen to bloody High Rock political intrigues all day." He turned to Agronak. "I will admit that I'm only in this for the money to buy armour and weapons. But I expected to have a greater challenge, to have to actually earn my winnings." Realising that he was doing Agronak a discourtesy by not giving his own name, he added: "I am Gorgoth gro-Kharz, from Orsinium."

Agronak grunted. "I've never been to Orsinium; I was born here in Cyrodiil," he muttered. "Been fighting most of my life. I'm only half-Orc, that's why I'm called the Grey Prince, partly." Agronak shook his head in disgust. "My father was a lord, I think, but I've never been able to prove it." The half-Orc's head snapped up. "But, you don't need to hear about me moaning about my birthright," he said, a small smile appearing on his face. "I'll talk to Owyn, see if he can get you a bigger challenge next match." Agronak surged to his feet, nodded in goodbye, and walked off in the direction of the named Redguard.

Gorgoth let his head fall back against the stone wall. Predictably, he felt dried blood crumble at the point of contact. Ignoring it, he pondered his options. Fifty drakes didn't get much in Orsinium, and it was likely the same story in the Imperial City. It looked like more boring battles for him, at least in the near future. He felt for the Amulet of Kings in his pocket and clenched his fist around it lightly, comforted slightly by its presence. With that in hand, he had a purpose.

The shaman rose to his feet and stomped over to Owyn, who was just seeing off a Khajiit up the ramp. The Redguard turned back to him. "Back for more, are you?" he asked, spitting yet again. "When that cat gets back, get up the ramp, and try to make it more exciting this time." Owyn turned and strode off. Gorgoth leant back against the wall and waited, idly tapping his mace against the wall, ignoring the crumbling of the dried blood. Looking down at the blunt weapon, he spotted some blood from the Bosmer still staining the iron mace head. He wiped it off.

Looking around for a better weapon, Gorgoth was disappointed. Racks lined the walls, but they held weapons that were all crudely made, mostly of low quality iron. The sooner he got his own weapon, the better. He spotted a warhammer that might have done as a weapon, but dismissed it. Too top-heavy for one-handed use. It might put him off balance. In addition to that, rust was creeping over the head of the weapon like a wasting disease, eroding the metal. Gorgoth snorted; properly maintained weapons, made of fine Orcish steel, wouldn't rust easily, if at all.

A Breton, staggering back after being hit by another gladiator when sparring, bumped into Gorgoth. The Orc shoved him away, not powerfully, but enough to make him stagger. The Breton turned, anger in his posture, but upon seeing Gorgoth, he appeared to think better of it and returned to his sparring. Gorgoth, if he had been more prone to openly displaying his emotions, would be smiling. He'd never had this effect in Orsinium.

While thinking up uses for his new-found intimidation ability, Gorgoth looked up as the Khajiit staggered back down the ramp and washed himself in the basin. Blue healing magic made a soft sound as the blood fell from his fur and his wounds closed. Gorgoth nodded in appreciation; powerful magic indeed. The water wasn't even bloodied. A growl from Owyn snapped him out of his thinking and sent him on his way up the ramp for the second time.

Gorgoth jogged up the ramp, still able to keep his balance. He could, however, see the problems it would cause for those less endowed with good balance and quick feet. The bloody handprints dried onto the dark wood of the door were a macabre touch, probably left there to unnerve the new Pit Dogs. He ignored them and pushed the door open.

Immediately, the sound of the Arena was amplified. It was ever-present in the bloodworks, but down there, it was heard as a muted hum. Here, Gorgoth could hear the full voice of the crowd resounding off the stone walls leading to the gladiator cage. He started off towards the sands of the arena, the hard-packed, cool sand grinding under his boots. His mace swung from his fist, the iron head audibly swishing through the air as he strode with confidence in his step.

The roaring of the crowd peaked as he stepped out into the sun. Overhead, the blazing ball of fire in the clear blue sky had barely moved since his last match; some of the audience clearly recognised him, screaming for a longer match this time. Gorgoth ignored them; he was here for money, not for their appeasement. While there was no honourable reason for killing for the sake of entertainment, the Orc justified it by convincing himself he needed money for armour and supplies to complete his Emperor-given quest.

At last, the announcer finished. As the bars finished shrieking their way into the soft sand, Gorgoth cast his standard pre-battle spells and walked quickly out onto the sands. The crowd increased their volume as his opponent, an Imperial in a heavy raiment, charged out to do battle to the death. Gorgoth raised his mace, bent his knees, and fell naturally into the combat stance that he had used for over a decade.

The Imperial came to him. His longsword flashed in the sunlight, either an attempt to blind the Orc or a simple trace of luck, but the result was the same; Gorgoth didn't blink, as many a lesser warrior would, and so his vision remained clear. In an instant, the Imperial was within range and was stabbing. Gorgoth swung his mace up and knocked the blade away. His old mace would have bent or chipped the steel at least; this one merely did its job, no more.

Put off balance by Gorgoth's parry, the other combatant stepped back to regain control. Gorgoth stepped forward, swinging his mace with gusto. The Imperial stepped back again in a simple dodge. Cursing his mace's short reach, the Orc followed up with a swift punch to the ribs; it connected, a good, solid punch, winding his opponent. Gorgoth moved to strike again with his mace, but the Imperial wisely darted out of range to recover.

His opponent was now wary, aware of Gorgoth's speed despite his deceptive bulk. The Orc flicked a small fireball at the Yellow team Pit Dog. He normally refused to use offensive magic in fights against non-mages, deeming it dishonourable, but he guessed that Owyn would like it if the crowd was awed by some magic. And it was hard not to use offensive magic considering the shoddy quality of his equipment.

The crowd held its breath for a moment as the fireball streaked past the Imperial, who had seen the danger and dived out of the way just in time. The fireball hit some sort of magical barrier and exploded; most likely a precaution implemented by the authorities to reduce spectator deaths. The Yellow team combatant scrambled to his feet just in time to dodge another swing of Gorgoth's mace. He counterattacked, but his swing simply bounced off Gorgoth's magically-reinforced raiment.

The Orc took advantage of this and smashed his mace into the Imperial's lower ribs. He distinctly heard them crunch despite the protection offered by the heavy raiment. The crowd went through a curious mixture of sounds, from groans of empathy, cheers at a telling blow, jeers from those who had bet on the Yellow team, and a few chants for yet more blood. Gorgoth ignored them all and swung again. His opponent, now unable to dodge as quickly, managed to parry the attack. Fighting on with shattered ribs meant he was a worthy opponent, with some semblance of endurance.

Gorgoth went on the offensive, swinging his mace again and again with speed and ferocity that he knew the wounded gladiator couldn't cope with. The Imperial's defence crumbled and he eventually succumbed to death as the iron mace head smashed into his skull, lodging there. As the crowd responded once again with that odd mixture of sounds, Gorgoth retrieved his mace, letting his dead opponent fall to the floor. No point in closing his eyes. His entire face was caved in due to the entire front part of his brain being splattered on Gorgoth's mace. He attempted to shake it off on his way back down to the bloodworks.

The grey matter proved stubborn, so Gorgoth submerged the mace in the Basin of Renewal, the blood washing off and seemingly being absorbed by the magical water. Owyn stomped over and tossed him another bag of coins. "Better than last time," he grudgingly admitted. Gorgoth raised an eyebrow at the normally irate Redguard. This seemed to return the Blademaster to his usual surly self. "But still a bloody good cure for insomnia," he growled. "Next match, if you win, you're a Brawler. Might actually get some respect then." With a final discharge of saliva onto the bloody floor, Owyn stalked off to find the next combatants.

Gorgoth added the bag to the one already in his pocket and leaned against the wall. He probably still needed more money – a mere hundred drakes wasn't going to be enough – but fighting on an empty stomach was never wise, and the Orc hadn't eaten since the early morning in his cell. His stomach rumbled, and some gladiators looked around for the avalanche before they figured out what it was. "Where can I get some food?" asked Gorgoth, suppressing another mighty rumble.


	5. Steel and Silver

**A/N: Right, next chapter. Sorry it's a bit short, I tried to pad it out a bit, but a chapter ends when it ends... next chapter will be longer, rest assured. However, seeing as Arty Thrip is my only regular reviewer, you'll be waiting for that chapter for a while unless I get more reviewers...**

**Arty: Yes, the Fighters Guild does seem like the only Guild of choice for Gorgoth, but I never said that the only main character would be Gorgoth did I...? I'll be introducing new major characters fairly soon, some of them original.**

**Anyhow, don't let me keep you any longer. Read on. Don't forget to review.**

* * *

**Chapter Five: Steel and Silver**

"The Feed Bag isn't fancy, but it fills you up." That was what the Blue team Gladiator had told him, and it had appealed to Gorgoth. After eventually finding the bar tucked away in a corner of the Market District, Gorgoth and his appetite had descended upon it. The Dunmer publican, Delos Fandas, had obviously recognised the huge Orc's value as a high paying customer and had been eager to serve. However, he'd probably regretted ushering Gorgoth over to a free table when the wooden chair creaked and groaned under the weight of Gorgoth in his full Arena raiment.

After gorging himself on some sort of tough meat, cheese, potatoes and bread, while downing four tankards of beer, Gorgoth looked up to find the place nearly full. It would seem that the Feed Bag was a popular place for the shopkeepers of the market district after closing hours. A Redguard in full steel plate armour, minus the helm and gauntlets, sat down at Gorgoth's table, causing another chair to screech in protest under the weight.

"Looks like you know how to handle heavy armour," commented Gorgoth's new eating companion, his voice smooth as he eyed Gorgoth's movements. "I was watching your last match," explained the Redguard. "I'm Varnado. I handle heavy armour at _The Best Defence_, an armour shop here in the Market District." Varnado extended a tanned hand, and Gorgoth shook it. The shopkeeper's grip was firm.

"Gorgoth gro-Kharz," replied Gorgoth, waving to Delos to bring another tankard of beer. "I am ranked Pit Dog at the moment; I only just started today. My sole reason for fighting in that honourless pit is to save up enough money to equip myself properly. I will not rely on this eye-catching excuse for armour they call a heavy raiment." The Orc indicated the amalgamation of iron and cloth that made up his present garment.

Varnado nodded in sympathy as his whiskey arrived. He downed it in one. "For a big warrior like you, it's going to be a high cost for a suit of steel," he admitted. "But, in a few matches, you should have enough to buy most of it. It'd be around four hundred, four fifty drakes for the full works." The Redguard perked up, an idea occurring to him. "You know, you seem pretty good. If I get you a proper mace, instead of the stunted stick you're using, and make a few drakes on bets placed on you, I could grab you a discount. Pick up the mace at the Best Defence later."

Gorgoth's mood improved slightly at the prospect of losing less of his cash and getting a proper, long mace. "Any moderately well-forged weapon will be good enough in my hands," he grunted. "Just make sure it's longer than this ill-made stump of iron." He drained half the beer in his tankard with a long gulp. "Do you come here often?"

"Always," remarked Varnado, smiling as a barmaid delivered his meal, a stew of some kind. "It's not fancy, but..."

"...It fills you up," said Gorgoth, completing the recommendation that just about everyone in the bloodworks was ready to give him. "It certainly fulfils that objective, if little else. I've got enough energy to fight a dozen fights against those pathetic dregs often coughed up by the Arena." Gorgoth drained the dregs from his tankard and squinted out of the window at the setting sun. "Speaking of which, I can fit in a match before the Arena closes. It was good to meet you, Varnado. I will pick up whatever you have for me later."

The Redguard nodded to him and walked over to some of his fellow merchants as Gorgoth stood up and paid the bill, which amounted to fourteen drakes. He hurried out of the Feed Bag and headed over to the Arena grounds. While the raiment offered little protection, Gorgoth had to admit that it allowed a lot of freedom of movement, something that his preferred plate armour didn't allow. However, comprehensive protection was better than being vulnerable to every half-hearted slash.

Owyn looked up as the huge Orc stomped into the bloodworks, which was much less active as dusk drew near. Agronak was still pummelling a practice dummy, and several other gladiators were practising with their preferred weapons, but others seemed to have dispersed to dinner or sleep. Or maybe they had all been killed. Unlikely, there wasn't enough time in a day to slaughter near enough a hundred good fighters in duels to the death.

"I take it you want a battle?" muttered Owyn. "The cleaners are wiping a Breton off the sands right now, what's left of him, anyway. You're clear to go in a minute." The Redguard folded his arms and leaned his head back against the wall, curiously not spitting. Gorgoth wondered if there was something wrong with the man as he settled back against the opposite wall to wait.

He didn't have to wait long. The cleaners dragged a Breton's freshly mutilated body down the ramp, and Gorgoth took off up the ramp almost before Owyn's nod of confirmation. The fresh blood from the corpse was more slippery that the semi-dried old blood, but the warrior-shaman took it in his stride easily as he barged through the blood-soaked door.

Walking up to the bars, an ear dwelling on the announcer's speech, Gorgoth eyed up his opponent; an Argonian, with an arrow nocked to a composite bow. Gorgoth wouldn't normally have worried, but his raiment offered next to no protection in some areas, and his plethora of defensive spells, which he was just casting, couldn't keep out an arrow in full flight. The shaman strengthened the shield spell; he would likely need it. This more powerful version took up a lot more of his magicka, but in effect coated his skin with steel.

The announcer finished and stepped back; the bars dropped. Drawing his mace, Gorgoth exploded out onto the sands, sprinting as hard as he could, attempting to close the distance between himself and the emerging Argonian as quickly as possible. His opponent drew, aimed and released the arrow in one smooth motion, and was nocking another immediately with speed and precision.

It was hard to miss a target as big as the rapidly approaching Orc. The arrow flew into Gorgoth's shoulder. With the combination of the raiment's protection and his shield spell, it was deflected harmlessly, only throwing the Orc off balance slightly. Halfway to the Argonian, the next arrow impacted on his right knee. Gorgoth stumbled, flailed for a moment, then recovered. Almost there. A third arrow sliced across his temple, stinging but causing no real damage beyond a scratch. The Argonian threw his bow aside and drew a shortsword, rolling aside to avoid the descending avalanche that was Gorgoth.

Gorgoth went to one knee in order to kill speed and stop in time to turn to face his opponent. However, while he was recovering, the Argonian went on the offensive, stabbing at him. Gorgoth grabbed the Yellow team combatant by his sword arm and yanked. The Argonian stumbled forward as a result of this crude move, which had the added affect of getting Gorgoth to his feet quicker. He backhanded the lizard, sending him staggering back, but he was able to recover quickly as Gorgoth moved forward.

Stepping forward, the Orc swung his mace lazily as a distraction. The Argonian watched it warily, his scaled tail flickering back and forth. Gorgoth struck rapidly, his left fist impacting in the lizard's lower ribs. The Yellow team Pit Dog, despite being winded with definite rib bruising, spun with the blow and aimed a powerful thrust at Gorgoth's armpit. Gorgoth knocked it aside with his mace and kicked the Argonian in the ribs. There was an audible snap as the combatant flew several metres and landed heavily on the sands. Some among the audience groaned in sympathy, while others roared for Gorgoth to close in for the kill.

Gorgoth walked over to the groaning Argonian, who was struggling to rise. He raised his mace, ready to bring it down on the Yellow team Pit Dog's skull, when the lizard swiftly rolled out of the way, throwing an empty bottle aside. The crowd roared as he flipped to his feet, the healing potion taking immediate effect. He drew another shortsword and, infused with optimism by the healing magics, darted forward to attack, foolishly ignoring Gorgoth's mace as he stabbed both swords towards the Orc's gut.

There was a nasty crunch as the iron mace head smashed through the Argonian's skull. A split second later, there was a squelch as it impacted on the soft brain. Then the crowd went wild. The announcer leapt to his feet started up with the rhetoric again as the Argonian's corpse fell to the sands, wildly yelling that Gorgoth was now at Brawler rank. Gorgoth left the mace where it was as he walked off to the bloodworks. Varnado had better be good for that promised long mace.

After washing his hands in the Basin of Renewal, Gorgoth was chucked a significantly larger bag on coins by Owyn. "Brawler rank gets you a hundred drakes," he grunted by way of explanation. "Now get out of here, there's no more matches today and you're taking up room." The Redguard stomped off to his 'office'. Gorgoth curled his hand around the bag, feeling the coins inside, before pocketing it and heading up to the surface.

The sun was now fully below the horizon, and twilight was descending apon the Imperial city. The gladiators practising in the Arena grounds were now few and far between, many heading off to their beds for the night, or, more likely, off to the pubs for a night of drinking. Gorgoth himself didn't feel tired. None of his battles had been taxing. He was used to far more vigorous combat as a spellsword for hire in Orsinium. The Orc started off towards the Market District.

Gorgoth pounded his fist on the locked door of the Best Defence. Finding his way to the shop had been fairly easy; it was well known, and several people had been willing to give him good directions. The sun had by now fully retreated below the horizon, and the sky was now full of stars. Masser and Secunda were easily visible, with Secunda touching the tip of White Gold tower, and its larger, blood-red brother Masser dominating the sky to the west. The wood of the door was rough under Gorgoth's fist as he knocked again. There was a jerk as keys were forced into the well-maintained lock, then the door swung open with barely a creak on its well-oiled hinges. Gorgoth ripped his eyes away from the moons and peered into the warm light spilling out from the open door.

Varnado smiled and pulled the door wide open. "Glad you could make it, Brawler," he smiled as he ushered Gorgoth in. He was still wearing his armour. Closing the door behind him, he turned back to Gorgoth. "Yes, I was watching the match. He shortened it considerably, charging at you like an idiot. Still, I'm not complaining. I'm three hundred drakes up today because of you." The Redguard's grin grew broader as he slapped Gorgoth on the back. "Now, about that mace."

The shop front was fairly small for an armourer. In Orsinium, they advertised suits of armour in the shop window. However, in the Market District, shops were cramped for room, and Gorgoth could see that space had to be saved where possible. Varnado led him downstairs to the forge, which was larger than the shop above it. A mighty furnace, cold, the fires dead for the night, took up an entire wall. A mound of unforged steel was heaped in the corner, with finished products, stacked in racks haphazardly on the opposite wall. Swords, axes, maces, and armour all seemed ready to fall at the lightest touch. "Gin-Wulm likes it untidy," explained Varnado as he rummaged through the maces. "He's a master armourer, and gets the job done well enough, so we give him a free rein down here."

"We?" asked Gorgoth, looking around. "There's two shopkeepers here?" He'd seen two desks upstairs in the shop, but assumed that the shop was too small to hold two armourers and their wares.

Varnado's lip curled. "Unfortunately, yes," he grunted. "I have to share with Maro Rufus, the light armour specialist. He's sleeping upstairs." The Redguard spat. "I can't stand those bloody fairies, dancing around in their light leather and fur that any good sword could split," muttered the annoyed shopkeeper. "Too bad that I have to share with one of em. We get along professionally, but we're no friends." Varnado shook his head in frustration and went back to searching.

Gorgoth nodded in sympathy, tapping a steel cuirass. "You'd never see a self-respecting Orc in light armour," he grunted. "It has its uses for the smaller races – lets them dodge easier – but we're built like walls, and heavy armour supplements that." He moved down the row of racks, picking up some leather gauntlets and tossing them back onto the pile. "No point in wearing armour that doesn't give any protection when you're going to be taking hits."

Varnado was nodding in agreement as he pulled out a mace from an assorted pile with a triumphant smile. He turned round and extended it to Gorgoth. It was made from fine steel, very high quality, possibly from the Dragontails, though Gorgoth would be unable to tell until he could examine it magically. The deadly weapon had a long haft, essential to get any kind of range and power, for which Gorgoth was grateful. Giving the mace its killing power was its head, which had four large flangs, all blunt and heavy enough to cause catastrophic damage when driven at an enemy with enough force. Between each flang were two wicked spikes, for tearing holes in opponents to weaken them further if they survived the initial blow. The entire head was coated in silver, a fact Gorgoth appreciated. He hated fighting incorporeal enemies with only magicka.

"So, what do you think?" asked Varnado as Gorgoth took the mace and swung it a few times, getting a feel for it. The grip was perfectly suited to his grasp. The normally stoic Orc turned to Varnado and gave a rare smile.

"Not as good as a fine, Orc-made mace from Orsinium, but, then, not much is, and this comes damn close." Gorgoth grunted in appreciation of this weapon's power. "Don't you want payment for this?"

Varnado simply smiled and clapped Gorgoth on the shoulder. He had to reach up to do it. "I told you, friend, I already won three hundred drakes today betting on you. Keep that up, and I'll be rolling in money while you roll around getting accustomed to your new armour." The Redguard's smile grew. "Come in tomorrow morning for measuring. I'll have it custom made. Might cost you a bit extra, but I'm pretty sure you'll have no problem getting that money, and Gin-Wulm's quality is worth it."

Gorgoth nodded in understanding. He'd always chosen quality over cheapness or availability. When you needed your armour, you didn't want it collapsing around you because you'd paid a bit less for it. Quality was always worth the price. "Sounds good," rumbled the Orc, sticking the mace into a loop on his belt that his old, near-useless mace had occupied. "I'll be round in the morning. Could you recommend a good place to sleep?" Reconsidering, the warrior-shaman shook his head before Varnado could reply. "Don't bother. I'll sleep in the bloodworks. If I'm going to buy custom armour, I need every drake."

Varnado understood; he could empathise. The Redguard led the way back upstairs, locking the armoury door behind them and heading over to a door behind his desk. "This is where I sleep," he explained. "If me and Rufus shared a room, we'd probably kill each other before morning." Varnado chuckled and waved Gorgoth out. "Good luck, I'll see you tomorrow. Kill some novices for me."

Gorgoth gave Varnado a semi-salute as he closed the door behind him. "Damn right I will, Varnado," he muttered to himself, heading off towards the Arena. He kept one hand on his mace, getting the feel of the silver head. This drew him a few inquisitive glances from the Night Watch, but nothing more. The Market District was nearly empty, with only the drunks, beggars, and those who had late business around. The sound of laughter and music drifted from some nearby pubs. Gorgoth walked on past them. It had been a long day, what with the Emperor suddenly turning up in his cell, escaping, then fighting in the Arena for near enough the rest of the day. Gorgoth didn't feel particularly tired – he only needed a few hours sleep a night – but some rest would do him good. In his profession, sometimes it wasn't known when you'd next get a good night's sleep. He walked on towards the Arena.

The near-empty streets gave Gorgoth time to himself, time to think. He wondered what he was doing here, fighting as a gladiator. A more fervent supporter of the Emperor might have rushed straight off to see Jauffre with the Amulet, still in his prison rags, and probably get killed in the process. The Amulet was a weight in Gorgoth's pocket, always reminding him of his duty. But he wasn't about to risk his life, and possibly the last hope of the Empire, just so that a message could get delivered quickly. Gorgoth needed proper armour and proper weapons in order to make him feel able to carry out his task; as a mage, some might argue that magic could replace those, but Gorgoth had always used magic as a mere supplement, never fully relying on it. He had seen what happened to mages when he'd Silenced them. They were suddenly reduced to weak, unarmoured, untrained warriors, easy pickings. Reliance on magic was a weakness, one that Gorgoth never exposed himself to.

Gorgoth started thinking about his old life. He was unsure what course his life would take after his Emperor-given task was complete; he'd been a good spellsword back in Orsinium, with a solid reputation for getting things done to the letter. However, Gorgoth knew that, deep within himself, he wanted to stay away from Orsinium for the time being. Any normal Orc in his position would have been happy with his old profitable life, but Gorgoth was no ordinary Orc. Fate had seen to that since his birth. The Orc shook his head to clear thoughts of his past, repressing the slight snarl that threatened to appear on his normally stoic face. He hated thinking of the past. What he had to focus on now was the present. Dwelling on the past was likely to get himself killed. It offered too many distractions, too many regrets.

The dry grass crackled under Gorgoth's feet as he strode into the Arena grounds. Practising was now extremely sporadic, with only the most dedicated gladiators up training at this hour. Grunts, clashes, and mutterings of an ardent pair of Imperials practising caught Gorgoth's ear as he walked by, then a burst of blonde excitement tore itself out of the bushes in front of him. Gorgoth tightened his grip on his mace, then relaxed as he realised it was a short, excited Bosmer rushing towards the entrance to the pits, where Agronak was just emerging. Gorgoth raised an eye as the Bosmer, who was about half the height of the half-Orc, started prancing around him, singing in apparent delight. Agronak looked less impressed.

"By Azura! By Azura! By Azura! It's the Grand Champion-" The Wood Elf's prancing and singing was cut short by Agronak's fist meeting his face, and the Bosmer staggered back, holding both pudgy hands to his broken, bleeding nose. This, however, did not seem to deter him.

"I bet that's the same punch you used on the last challenger, isn't it?" mumbled the Bosmer through a badly broken nose. Agronak was turning a colourful shade of puce. Gorgoth felt sympathy for him. "I watched that game, it was the best demonstration of your undeniable prowess, oh great Grand Champion-" This time, Agronak's kick sent the Bosmer flying back into the bush from which he had come. The half-Orc turned angrily to Gorgoth.

"I'm going to try for a restraining order against him," growled the Grey Prince. "Every single time I leave the Arena, he's onto me like some fucking hero-worshipper. It's driving me insane." Agronak spat at the bushes and headed off to the Market District, irritably kicking the sands as he walked. Gorgoth looked after him, then, shaking his head in disbelief, headed on down to the bloodworks, ignoring Hundolin's two hefty bodyguards dragging the huge chest down to where it slept.

The bloodworks was near-deserted. No-one was practising; those sleeping outnumbered those awake, so it would be logical to assume that any hardcore gladiators had to risk mass verbal abuse if they persisted in practising. Gorgoth made no effort to quiet his thundering footsteps; such an attempt would be pointless. He'd always been completely hopeless at staying quiet, not that he'd ever needed to. The sleeping gladiators made a few murmurs of protest as he stomped by, but left it at that. Gorgoth searched for a bedroll that was both big enough and relatively blood-free. They seemed to be in short supply.

At last Gorgoth found what he was looking for and started ripping his raiment off. Some of it left sticky tendrils of sweat as it left his clammy skin, but he ignored it. When fully clad in heavy armour, the sweat fell in waterfalls; this was nothing by comparison. He grunted in mild relief as he eased off his breastplate and the cool night air, filtering through the open door, chilled his suffocated skin. The shin guards and boots were idly chucked into the corner. Now naked save for his ragged trousers, Gorgoth took out the bags of money and tucked them under his pillow. He hoped that he looked threatening enough while sleeping to deter potential thieves.

The huge Orc slid down under the thin, inadequate blanket and attempted to find a position in which both his feet were covered and the blanket came up to at least the middle of his chest. Failing this, he attempted to pummel the pillow into some semblance of softness. This also failed, and Gorgoth gave up trying to make his temporary bed comfortable. He'd slept rougher than this before; he was used to it. And in the Imperial city, he was less likely to wake and find his toes frozen and covered in frost, as was common in the Wrothgarian Mountains. The disadvantage of the heat from the south was that lice seemed to be more numerous. At least the weaker southern variants wouldn't be able to penetrate Gorgoth's thick skin. He shifted over on his side, facing the wall, and closed his eyes, working one of his thick braids out from under him. Using methods of relaxing his body, part by part, he had always been able to get to sleep easily. This time, his mind took some quieting before being able to drop into a sound sleep.

* * *

**A/N: Just another gentle reminder: Review.**


	6. New Personalities

**A/N: Ello again. It appears that my 'gentle' reminders to readers to review have worked. Many thanks to all who reviewed. I'll try to speed up my rate of updates from now on, as my summer holidays have started, but the chapters will mostly be longer from here on in, and as such will take longer to complete. Anyhow, I won't keep you any longer. Read on.**

* * *

**Chapter Six: New Personalities**

Gorgoth was awoken by a kick in his ribs. He immediately twisted round to face the giver of the kick to find himself looking at Owyn. The Orc scrambled to his feet and looked down at the Redguard, while observing that a lot of gladiators were still asleep.

"Early match, if you want it," grunted Owyn by way of explanation. "There's a Nord up there in the Yellow cage waving his axe around with no-one to hit. Get up there and give him a pounding with that shiny new mace of yours." The surly Redguard stepped back as Gorgoth forced on his armour and picked up his mace. "I'll be watching," he grunted as he stalked off to the gladiator's entrance to the Arena stands.

Gorgoth shook the last remaining sleep from his head as he hefted his mace, checked his raiment, and started up towards the Arena sands. The ramp was bloody, as always, but there was no fresh blood; the crimson layering crumbling underneath Gorgoth's weight was old and dried; yesterday's blood. The rays of the rising sun hit his skin for the first time that day as he opened the door and stepped out onto the Arena sands. He gripped his mace firmly, the head swinging along a few inches above the ground.

* * *

Owyn leaned his calloused hands on the wooden barricade separating him from the sands of the Arena, feeling the rough wood scratching his hands. He breathed deeply, inhaling the crisp morning air as he gave half an ear to the announcer, who was always drowsy in the morning. The Yellow team Nord was swinging his axe lazily in his cage, bored. Owyn shifted his gaze to the Orc that had attracted his interest ever since he had appeared yesterday. Gorgoth was in a combat stance, knees slightly bent, leaning forwards slightly, ready to charge out of the cage with his mace gripped firmly in his meaty right hand.

Owyn had many years fighting experience, and prided himself on the fact that he could tell a veteran warrior on sight. Gorgoth was one such warrior, despite his relatively young age. Though he rarely showed respect to anyone, Owyn felt it for this Orc, as well as a few select others. The Redguard knew the result of this battle before it had even begun; there were few in the Arena, Yellow or Blue, who could seriously challenge the massive Orc. However, Owyn doubted that even this leviathan could be a match for the reigning Grand Champion. Agronak was, quite simply, unbelievably good.

The announcer finished, yawning, and the gates were lowered. Both Gorgoth and the Nord charged out, their eyes firmly set on each other. The crowd, tiny at this time of day in comparison with those roaring the gladiators on in the afternoon, held their breath as the two heavy warriors thundered headlong at each other, neither thinking about giving way. The tension was palpable as the crowd awaited the terrible collision.

The Blademaster was not often surprised by a gladiator match; mainly, he could tell who would win. But Gorgoth surprised him. He slowed, tensed, then sprang up just as he reached the Nord. His right leg snapped out, smashing into the Nord's armoured stomach with incredible momentum. This momentum carried the Orc through his opponent, and he landed in a forward roll, springing to his feet and swiftly turning to the Yellow team combatant.

Owyn had physically winced at the impact. The Nord had been thrown across half the Arena. Blood, bile, and stomach acids sprayed from his mouth. He choked as he feebly attempted to move, the air completely forced from his lungs. Gorgoth slowly walked over to the struggling Nord, his mace swinging gently from his hand. The Yellow team Brawler, through sheer force of will, got himself into a sitting position and gripped his axe, dragging himself backward, away from the advancing Orc. Owyn unconsciously leaned forward, looking for the killing blow, his grip tightening on the barricade until his dark knuckles turned white.

The Redguard jerked his head round in surprise as Agronak joined him in leaning on the barricade beside him. He had never got used to how quietly the half-Orc moved. The Grand Champion wore an impressed expression. "Damn good kick, that was," he muttered, half to himself, looking inwards as though trying to memorise the kick in order to utilise it himself. Owyn shook his head and turned back to the battle.

Gorgoth had let the Nord scrabble away from him, probably on purpose, either to draw out the match and please the crowd or give the Nord a second chance. The latter was unlikely; the Nord was a shattered ruin, and would probably eventually die of devastating internal injuries even if he was to live through the next few minutes. Gorgoth loomed over the broken warrior, raising his mace over his head. His shadow, stretched in the rays of the morning sun, was splayed across the Arena sands, a giant figure going in for the kill. The Nord collapsed and lay there, looking at the sky, the last thing he would ever see. A tense silence was almost audible.

Gorgoth lowered his mace and instead picked up the unresisting Brawler by his throat. He hung there for a mere second before the Orc's massive hand twisted, brutally wrenching his neck to one side with a snap crunch audible in the highest stands of the Arena. Gorgoth's hand opened and the Nord dropped limply from his grasp like a wet sock, thudding to the ground with an everlasting glazed stare, blood staining his beard. The Arena claimed another victim.

Owyn nodded in appreciation, genuinely impressed at the Orc's performance, though not surprised by his victory, as the audience roared. The confetti of useless losing tickets descended down into the lower stands as usual, and the winners turned to go to accost Hundolin for their winnings. Owyn and Agronak descended into the bloodworks, the light given by the rising sun replaced by the harsh, bright light of candles and lamps.

"He's good," commented a nearby Dunmer gladiator. Owyn was inclined to agree.

* * *

Gorgoth finished washing his hands in the Basin of Renewal and looked at Owyn expectantly. The Redguard walked up to him, not wearing his usual surly expression, but one of slight appreciation. "Not a bad kick you've got on you," he admitted grudgingly. The Blademaster fished out a bag of coins and chucked them to Gorgoth, who deftly caught them and shoved them in his pocket. "If you come back later, I'll have a proper fight arranged, at least, as proper as it can get for someone like you at Brawler rank. Too bad I can't fast track you any quicker than this." The Redguard walked off, curiously not spitting.

Wondering over Owyn's sudden mellowing, Gorgoth ascended from the bloodworks, the sun falling on his green skin and warming him. One corner of his mouth pulled up in a slight smirk as he reflected that, despite it being a superior weapon, he hadn't actually used his new mace in his last battle. The Orc could just imagine Varnado's bemused expression when informed that his gift hadn't been fully appreciated yet. He walked off in the direction of the Market District, returning the greetings of some fellow gladiators who seemed to have heard of him.

Approaching the door of the Best Defence, Gorgoth stepped back as it was opened from the inside, but that didn't stop an Imperial, clad in some newly-bought leather armour, from running headlong into him. He bounced off and was planted on his backside on the bottom step. Looking up at Gorgoth, his expression turned from one of shock to distaste. Gorgoth sighed. He'd seen this superior expression before, on the corrupt mine owner as he ordered the ambushing legionnaires to attack Gorgoth's party, as well as countless Breton nobles. He hated it.

"What in Talos' name are you playing at, you filthy rodent?" snarled the short Imperial, standing and bringing himself to his full height, meaning that he barely reached the middle of Gorgoth's chest. The height difference didn't seem to intimidate him. "You would dare obstruct a member of the prestigious Bruti family?" the Imperial continued, poking Gorgoth's armoured chest as spit flew off his lips. A jumped-up lord of some insignificantly small noble family, no doubt. At least it wasn't High Rock. There were hundreds of these idiots there.

Gorgoth, growing tired of the inflated midget's tirade, roughly pushed him aside. The lordling tumbled and fell into a nearby stack of crates, which collapsed on him. An angry, indignant squeaking came from the pile, but Gorgoth had already entered the shop.

Varnado looked up from glaring at his lightly armoured rival, Maro Rufus, to greet Gorgoth with a wide grin. "Good to see you, my friend," he said, coming round the table to usher Gorgoth into the measuring room. "I heard from a passerby that you've already won a battle today. Too bad I wasn't there to bet on it." Grinning semi-apologetically, the steel-clad Redguard kicked open the door to the measuring room and led the towering Orc inside. Varnado had to duck under the doorway. The much taller Gorgoth had to bend himself almost double to fit through.

It was a simple, fairly small room with a high ceiling. One wall was taken up with straight lines painted onto the wall with various heights up to eight feet indicated. Implements for measuring height were scattered around in some kind of haphazard order, making the organised chaos of the forge downstairs look tidy. Apart from that, the room was bare and empty apart from a bored-looking Imperial sorting through some paperwork. He let the assorted sheets slide to the floor as Varnado and Gorgoth entered. His tired expression hinted that his work was extremely boring and he wasn't interested in anything except the pay.

His reception confirmed Gorgoth's suspicions. "Customer?" he grunted. His voice was flat and dull. Without waiting for a reply, he jerked his head over at the leftmost wall measuring line. "Get over there, strip completely, and line up against it." The Imperial started rummaging in one of the piles of implements, looking at each before throwing it over his shoulder and resuming his searching, muttering under his breath.

Gorgoth obediently stepped over to the designated area and removed his raiment. His shirt and trousers followed until he was stood completely naked against the wall, the stones cold against his back, his braids moved out of the way. He'd been measured for armour enough to times to know that it wasn't something that could be rushed; a single miscalculation could make the suit imperfect and decrease its quality, leading to potential disasters in combat. It was why Gorgoth always used custom built armour; quality was worth the cost.

Varnado stepped over to join him, shaking his head at what could be despair at his coworker's attitude. "I find myself endlessly apologising for his attitude, so much that I've just about given up," he growled, glaring in the Imperial's direction. "I would hire another one, but I just know me and Rufus would kill each other disagreeing on what one to hire, so it's best just to let sleeping dogs lie, even if they're bloody stupid." The Redguard shook his head again and fisted Gorgoth in his rock-solid stomach muscles. "Solid as the walls of this city," he grunted, half in admiration. "Just what I expected."

"Keeping my body well-maintained means keeping it in one piece," grunted Gorgoth in reply. "Not only that, but having physical prowess has its uses outside combat. Utilise what you can." He cast his gaze over to the Imperial, who was looking intently at a piece of rope marked along its length with measurements. "Is he competent?"

Varnado turned to glare at the Imperial, face hardening. "Good enough for us not to kick him out," he growled quietly. Raising his voice, he spoke to the Imperial's back. "Varus, if you've finished fucking around with your precious ropes, maybe you'd deign to join us?" Getting no response, the armourer stomped over and dragged the scrawny Imperial to his feet by his ear. "That means get the fuck on with it, you lazy bastard." Varnado pushed Varus over to Gorgoth.

This, along with Varnado's muted threats, finally spurred the lethargic Imperial into swift action, and within moments every square inch of Gorgoth's body was being examined in minute detail. Varnado grunted in satisfaction and folded his arms, idly prodding some of the larger piles of equipment with his foot. Varus was both quick and thorough when he could be bothered, and soon Gorgoth was pulling his raiment back on as the Imperial scribbled notes down on a piece of parchment, the quill scratching nastily as he leaned on his leg to write, bending himself double in the process.

Varnado snatched the parchment from Varus as soon as the ink was dry and ushered Gorgoth back into the shop, leaving Varus to his disorganisation. Rufus was dealing with a customer, a Bosmer who was stabbing his finger into a nasty-looking gash on his expensive-looking mithril cuirass and gesturing angrily. Rufus looked increasingly frustrated as he tried to get a word in edgeways, but the Bosmer's flow of criticisms and swearing continued unabated. Varnado smirked as he flung open the door leading downstairs to the armoury.

"Most of my customers don't complain," claimed the Redguard, a smug grin plastered over his face as he led the way to the forge. "But it seems that almost all his customers only ever complain. It's hard to believe his business is good enough." The sound of hammer on anvil, audible from the street, intensified as they entered the forge.

An Argonian was at the forge, hammering a steel longsword into shape. His eyes flickered towards them as they entered, then ignored them, consumed in his work. Gorgoth, observing his movements, could tell that the Argonian was a master armourer, which was a trait rare in the lizard race. However, he wouldn't complain if his armour was made by a Wood Elf, as long as they knew what they were doing. Varnado stepped over to the forge and laid the notes taken by Varus on a small table, rearranging them so that Gorgoth's order was the closest to the Argonian. The armourer stopped, briefly looked over the sheet, and held up ten scaled fingers.

Varnado translated as the lizard went back to work. "He says it'll take ten hours to make," he explained as he led Gorgoth back upstairs. "A very short time for an entire suit, but I made it a priority job; he'll haul in some magical help." The shopkeeper chuckled. "By that time, I'm pretty sure you'll have hit Bloodletter if you carry on like you have been." They had reached the shop floor; Rufus was still arguing with the Bosmer and a burly Imperial was casually leaning on Varnado's desk. "I'll catch you later," Varnado muttered, heading over to his customer. Gorgoth nodded and left.

The sun was high in the sky, but it wasn't yet noon. Gorgoth's stomach rumbled; a nearby Altmer woman looked around, trying to spot the location of the muted avalanche. Gorgoth, heeding the timely reminder to have breakfast, started off for the Feed Bag.

Delos seemed happy at the arrival of a returning customer and immediately found Gorgoth a table with a larger, stronger-looking seat. He then busied himself with shouting through into the kitchen while Gorgoth downed a tankard of beer. He rarely drank water; beer was better for nutrition and the weak alcoholic content of non-Orcish beer made virtually no impact on an Orc the size of Gorgoth.

In short order, his requested breakfast had arrived. Knowing the importance of large amounts of energy reserves, Gorgoth had his plate piled high with bacon, eggs, beans, tomatoes, sausages and some kind of potato. It was probably the biggest breakfast ever served by Delos, as evidenced by the Dunmer's wide eyes before hurrying off to deal with other customers.

Gorgoth proceeded to stuff his body with food until he noticed two people sit down across from him at his table. He looked up to observe an Argonian and a female Redguard, both sweating profusely and neither wearing very much. The way their muscles were formed and the way they moved gave Gorgoth subtle hints about their occupation; that and the fact that he'd seen them sparring in the Arena grounds reinforced his assumption that they were gladiators at the Arena, or at least training to be gladiators.

"Gorgoth gro-Kharz, am I right?" asked the Redguard. She seemed to be fairly good-looking under the sweat, but Gorgoth had never been interested in the Redguard kind of beauty, or human beauty of any kind, for that matter.

Gorgoth simply nodded and speared another sausage with his knife.

"I'm Branwen, and this is Saliith," she explained, indicating her Argonian friend, who nodded to Gorgoth. Branwen leaned forward, peering up at Gorgoth's face. He swallowed his sausage and stared down at her. "We're training to be combatants in the Arena and, we wondered if you could give us any tips? You know, you seem to be..." she trailed off nervously under Gorgoth's unblinking, unmoving gaze.

"Eh... if you get angry, it was her idea," rasped Saliith, jabbing his thumb at Branwen. His Redguard friend grimaced.

"Advice?" grunted Gorgoth. They both nodded. "Use weapons," he simply replied, picking up a rasher of bacon and stuffing it into his mouth.

The two trainee gladiators exchanged nervous glances, then turned back to the Orc. "We assumed our fists and feet would be good enough weapons," started Saliith, but was cut off by Gorgoth looking up again.

"They're good enough, until you come up against some gladiator who's just as quick as you are, but who wields a blade or mace" he growled. "Then you're fucked." His plate mostly clean, Gorgoth pushed it away and drained his third beer.

After exchanging yet another glance, Branwen and Saliith were caught off guard when Gorgoth abruptly stood. They jumped to their feet with such rapidity that both their chairs clattered to the floor. "Then could you tell us what weapons would be best?" asked Branwen. Both she and her compatriot seemed pretty determined to succeed, and if Gorgoth had been correct in his assumption that they were fanatical trainers. It was the least he could do to reward such dedication, especially after putting a damper on it.

"Talk to me at the Arena after my next match," he replied. "I'll examine you and tell you what weapons would suit you best. Now get some energy in you." He tossed a handful of coins to Delos and walked out of the Feed Bag. The two would-be gladiators looked out after him, exchanged another long glance, then sat down again and ordered breakfast.

As Gorgoth entered the bloodworks, Owyn turned round from shouting at a trembling gladiator and beckoned him over. The Orc, now used to the workings of the bloodworks, ducked around the various swords and made his way over to the Blademaster unscathed. "Got a match for you, after the pair of Pit Dogs have finished up there," reported Owyn. Gorgoth motioned for him to continue. "Two Bosmer sisters. They always fight together. One a swordsmer, the other an archer. Should be a cut above the crap you've faced so far." Owyn turned, and, predictably, spat. "Good enough for you?"

Gorgoth nodded and settled down to wait. Owyn grunted and turned back to the quaking gladiator, continuing his tongue lashing. Something about the Bloodletter trying to pick up his fallen opponent's sword. Gorgoth absently listened with half an ear while watching Agronak spar with an Imperial. After a few short minutes, the Imperial limped off with numerous bruises. The Grand Champion hadn't even broken a sweat.

The Orc's attention was drawn to the two cleaners carrying out the remains of what looked like a Khajiit from the Arena. Owyn jerked his thumb in the direction of the ramp. Gorgoth drew his mace and started up the blood-soaked ramp, more slippery than it had been earlier due to the addition of fresh blood. The handprints were still visible on the door. Gorgoth idly wondered how long they'd been there as he kicked the door open.

The long walk to the sands of the Arena was becoming second nature to Gorgoth by now. The announcer's speech never seemed to get less boring. Arriving in the Blue Team cage, Gorgoth sized up his opponents. The two sisters looked physically similar. However, their equipment set them apart. The slightly larger of the two wore a heavy raiment with a Dwarven-made claymore on her back, the hilt visible over her shoulder. It was nearly as long as she was tall. As Gorgoth watched, she swigged down a potion and drew her claymore, seemingly infused with the energy received from the potion.

The other sister was a more typical Bosmer. Light raiment and a short bow held in her right hand, her left hand resting on the full quiver at her hip. The bow might have been short, but it was perfect for Arena work, where the distance to the target would never exceed the bow's short range, and rate of fire could prove crucial.

Not on Gorgoth. He cast his usual cocktail of spells, increasing the power of the shield spell. It would take a long bow, wielded by a strong man, to penetrate his spell and armour; the short bow wielded by the Bosmer simply lacked the power to do so. Rate of fire counted for nothing when the arrows would simply bounce off.

The announcer finished his heralding of the upcoming match and sat down, growling at a nearby servant to fetch him some water. Gorgoth walked out onto the sands, his mace dangling by his side. He slowed and waited for the two Bosmer sisters to come to him.

The archer immediately darted off to the side, took careful aim, and fired. Gorgoth nimbly sidestepped; no point in risking his life and putting his entire trust in his spell, even though he'd used it hundreds of times and it had never once failed him. The Bosmer grimaced and fired again, only for Gorgoth to dodge again; the arrow grazed his shoulder, doing nothing.

The other, claymore-wielding sister had reached the Orc, and screamed as she put all her power into a mighty slash aimed at cleaving his body in two. Gorgoth sidestepped and kicked her back leg from under her. The Yellow team Brawler's momentum carried her to the floor with enough force to drive the air from her lungs. As she struggled to maintain her grip on her claymore, Gorgoth spun round in time to block a lunge from the other Bosmer; seeing her bow as useless, she'd dropped it and drawn a shortsword.

Gorgoth moved in and, dodging her inexpert swing, grabbed her by the raiment and threw her, one-handed, across half the Arena. With that distraction dealt with, to the audible gasps of the crowd as such a display of strength, Gorgoth turned back to the swordsmer. She'd managed to crawl away and recover, holding her claymore in a defensive position. Knowing that he didn't have long before the other Bosmer could become a literal thorn in his side, Gorgoth moved in to attack.

The Bosmer barely blocked his first swing. She'd been expecting a long, slow attack; what she had to deal with was a mace head flying at her face with undeniable speed. Her parry deflected it, but the sheer force of the blow staggered her. The Orc didn't let up, swinging again and again, opening cracks in her defence. It was clear that she was mainly an offensive warrior, and claymores weren't nearly as good as shields for blocking attacks.

Gorgoth, sensing rather than hearing the embattled Bosmer's sister scrambling to her feet, kicked the Brawler's claymore away and swung his mace up into her exposed chin. The attack was so fast and vicious she didn't have time to dodge. However, she did have the sense to move with the blow, which meant instead of dying immediately, her skull simply attempted to reposition itself an inch higher up than nature would naturally allow. Gorgoth turned away from the falling Bosmer and turned his other opponent, who shrieked in fury at her sister's demise and launched herself at Gorgoth.

The Orc simply grabbed her sword arm and lifted her up so they saw face to face. Her legs weakly kicked from two feet in the air. "Fighting with one you love is always complicated," growled the Orc, ignoring her fury and attempts to spit in his eyes. "It clouds your mind when they go down. Makes you weak." Gorgoth rammed his mace into the loop on his belt, straightened out his fist, and put all his strength into a wicked jab into the Bosmer's gut. His armoured hand tore straight through the light raiment, through her guts, and out the other side, awash with blood and intestinal matter.

The crowd gasped as the Bosmer's eyes grew wide. A few weak attempts at speech led to nothing more than blood trickling from her mouth. Gorgoth withdrew his hand from her body and threw her to the floor. After a few feeble attempts to stand, she gave up the ghost, eyes glazing over as she stared at the sky. Gorgoth turned and walked back to the Blue team entrance, glancing at the other Bosmer on the way. She, too, was dead, her face unrecognisable.

After washing his hands in the Basin of Renewal, Gorgoth walked up to Owyn and tapped him on the shoulder. The Blademaster barely turned away from the Yellow team gladiator he was shouting at as he chucked a bag of coins in Gorgoth's general direction. The Orc deftly caught it and pocketed it as he walked out of the bloodworks.

Gorgoth spotted Branwen and Saliith almost instantly, in the midst of the crumbling Aylied pillars where they normally trained. As he walked up, they broke off their discussion and turned to him. Gorgoth said nothing, merely folded his arms and examined them thoroughly with his eyes, taking in every detail of their bodies, walking round them to see them from all sides. The two trainee gladiators exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing. Gorgoth walked back around in front of them and motioned for Saliith to step forward.

The lizard stepped forward almost warily, but didn't wince when Gorgoth grabbed him and started going over his entire body in meticulous detail, analysing every muscle, every tendon. The Argonian's scales were rough under his thick, green fingers. Gorgoth straightened and grunted.

"You can move quick, and you're flexible, typical of your race," he reported. "With training, you could be deadly with a couple of short blades. Use light armour, dance around your opponent, tire him out and get under his guard. Maybe consider using throwing knifes in a tight spot if you can aim well enough." The Orc slapped Saliith on the shoulder and turned to Branwen. "You next."

The Redguard stepped forward to submit herself to Gorgoth's probing examination. The Orc gave her the same treatment as he had her Argonian comrade, going over every muscle in detail. She understandably stiffened when he got too close to certain areas, but he just muttered for her to grow up and continued. Gorgoth finished and straightened.

"You're built for the longsword and shield, girl," he muttered, indicating her arms. "You've got enough muscle to pull it off, but don't burden yourself too heavily. Movement will be nearly as important as blocking for you, as you don't have the strength that a man does, so you can't absorb blows as easily as him. Use a fairly light shield, one with a sharp edge so you can use it as a weapon if need be." Gorgoth stepped back and alternated his gaze between the two of them.

"I'm well trained in just about every weapon under the sun," he stated, folding his arms. "If you can manage to get some weapons that actually work, I might be able to give you a few pointers, but don't expect me to fully teach you in their proper usage. I've got work to occupy me." Gorgoth wasn't prepared to sit around training potential gladiators when he had the Amulet of Kings sitting in his pocket, waiting to be delivered to Jauffre.

"No worries," rasped Saliith. "You've been a help already. If we'd gone in there with bare fists, I can see how we'd have been killed." Branwen nodded, agreeing with her scaled friend.

"Get some weapons," instructed Gorgoth. "Good quality ones, not the shit you'll find in the bloodworks." He was turning even before they scampered off to the Market District. The sun was still ascending to its noonday peak; easily enough time to get enough money together for the armour. He turned back to the Arena, intending to reach Bloodletter rank and get the real money in, but a voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Hey, big guy," called a female voice from behind the huge Orc. Gorgoth turned to find himself staring at a Bosmer. "I was watching that last match of yours," she continued. "Pretty solid spell you've got there." Her voice managed to be flippant and sultry at the same time.

Gorgoth guessed that men and mer would find the Wood Elf standing before him attractive, but he was no expert on their kind of beauty. She was clad in full leather armour, apart from her bare head. She leaned on a powerful silver-worked composite bow that was almost as tall as her, reaching her chin. At this close range, Gorgoth could sense the magicka emanating from its powerful enchantment. The Bosmer looked like she knew how to use it. She herself was tall for a Wood Elf, five foot one, which brought her head to about the level of Gorgoth's lower chest. Fierce blue eyes full of confidence stared up at him from a pale face framed by locks of auburn hair, the remainder of which was loosely tied high in a long ponytail that reached her waist. Gorgoth guessed her to be young, very young, twenty at the most, yet the way she moved and held herself suggested experience.

"I've always used defensive magics," retorted the Orc, folding his arms. "Helps keep me alive. Your point?"

One side of the Bosmer's mouth pulled up in a smirk. "Betcha I can penetrate it with this baby," she claimed, patting her bow. "You can call the distance, but I can break through whatever with Trueshot here."

Gorgoth considered her without so much as moving a muscle. She obviously had confidence in abundance, both in herself and in her bow. "Go ahead," he grunted, casting his strongest shield spell and holding up his left hand, fingers splayed out. "Hit the centre of the palm. Twenty metres."

"You bet," she laughed, turning and walking to twenty metres away. The way she moved seemed to be purposefully adapted to attract the eyes of all nearby men. Gorgoth himself was unaffected. Distractions could kill.

She raised her bow, nocked an arrow, and loosed, all in one, smooth, quick motion. The arrow flew straight into Gorgoth's palm. He lowered his hand and looked at it. Alteration was one of his strong points, and his shield spell was well known by people in Orsinium for keeping both himself and his comrades alive. Yet the arrow from Trueshot had seemingly completely ignored it and was now neatly resting in the centre of his palm, the blood-streaked head and half the shaft sticking out the back of his hand. Gorgoth kept his face still as he tore the arrow out and healed the wound.

The Bosmer was laughing as she sauntered back up to him. "Bet ya weren't expecting _that_, huh, big guy?" she laughed, taking her arrow back and replacing it in the bristling quiver at her hip.

Gorgoth merely grunted. "So your enchanted bow can penetrate just about anything. Your point is?"

"Just wanted to see if it would work," replied the archer. "Name's Aerin. Archer and Warrior of the Arena. Nice ta meet ya, Gorgoth." Aerin patted Trueshot and slung the bow onto her back. "You staying here at the Arena long? It's good to see someone around who seems to just effortlessly shatter the opposition. Makes a nice change from the long, drawn-out, _boring_ battles I get forced to watch sometimes." She folded her arms and pouted.

"Believe me, I'm not doing this because I like it," growled Gorgoth. "It's a means to an end; I need money for armour better than this shit they call a raiment. Then I'm off to deliver something." Gorgoth obviously wasn't going to tell someone who'd just shot him about the Amulet of Kings. "Speaking of which, where's your raiment?"

"Are you kidding?" giggled Aerin, starting to slowly saunter her way over to a large pool of water. Gorgoth fell in beside her for lack of a better thing to do. "A raiment like that on a girl like me, all the time, when I don't have to?" She shook her head. "I don't get regular matches. Means I get more free time for hunting and shooting Orcs who like Alteration. So I can wear what I bloody well like most of the time." She grinned and hoisted herself up to sit on the wall surrounding the water.

Gorgoth sat down beside her. His feet reached the ground easily, whereas her feet were lazily swinging at least a foot from the ground. "I've never seen Owyn promote someone so quickly," observed Aerin. "Three matches and you're a Brawler?" She sighed. "Took me seven hard battles to get up to Brawler. That was before I had Trueshot, though."

"I don't care for the man's motives," replied Gorgoth. "I just want my money, then I'll be gone as soon as I've got my armour, which is later today." He eased the head of his mace out of his ribs.

"And then you're off to deliver something? As simple as that?" Aerin was toying with one of her tresses of auburn hair. Gorgoth nodded in reply. "Somehow I doubt it'd be anything ordinary. You seem ta exude adventure and danger, big guy." She looked up at him as though expecting a confirmation.

"Maybe it's simply because I'm bloody dangerous," growled Gorgoth. "And, no, I have no intention of telling you what my quest is. You can use your breath for a more constructive purpose."

"Ya _really_ didn't want ta deny me there, big guy," purred Aerin, leaning in closer to him, staring up at him through her long eyelashes. "I can be _very_ persistent when I need ta be."**  
**

Gorgoth grunted and stood. "I'm sure you can," he replied, striding off towards the Arena. "No sense in wasting my time when I could be fighting." Aerin didn't follow him; he would likely throw her in the pool if she persisted.

With Branwen and Saliith still nowhere in sight, Gorgoth headed down to the bloodworks. Hundolin's bodyguards were busy pounding the living daylights out of a Breton who refused to accept that he'd lost his bet. The Orc ignored them and kicked open the door to the bloodworks. As usual, the stench of sweat and blood washed over him in a powerful wave, but he ignored it. Owyn was in his 'office', having an animated conversation with the Battle Matron, Ysabel Andronicus, one of the few who could have an argument with Owyn and win.

As Gorgoth stomped up, Owyn threw his hands in the air and turned away from the indomitable Imperial, his eyes falling on Gorgoth and lighting up as he found a reason to get away from the Battle Matron. "Right, I take it you want a fight?" he asked, ignoring Ysabel glaring at his back. "Well, you're gonna have to wait. Got to balance these things out, you see. Come check after lunch." Owyn shrugged as an apology and hurriedly walked off to shout at someone else.

Gorgoth merely grunted and returned to the surface. As he emerged into the late morning sunshine, he nearly walked into an Imperial, the one he recognised as having shoved into a crate outside the Best Defence. The arrogant nobleman squawked at the sight of the warrior-shaman, but Gorgoth gave him no time to do anything else, pushing him down the stairs and through the door into the bloodworks. Ignoring Hundolin's dropping jaw, Gorgoth looked out over the Arena grounds.

Agronak was being restrained from killing his fan by two guards; Aerin was practising with Trueshot, aiming at targets from ludicrous ranges, and Branwen and Saliith were in their normal area, sparring with each other, not with their fists, but with the weapons he'd recommended. Gorgoth walked over, his heavy feet crunching on the sand.

"Don't stay still, either of you," he muttered, causing Branwen to spin and stare at him in surprise, while Saliith simply dropped his arms to his sides. The Redguard obviously hadn't heard him coming, while the lizard had. "Saliith, your main weapon is your mobility, and, Branwen, you shouldn't leave yourself open, your armour is too light to take many hits. Move around and use your shield as a mobile wall." They nodded and started sparring again. Gorgoth folded his arms and watched.

"You've got natural ability, both of you," he commented, after a few minutes of watching. "Join the Arena now, and you'd at least hold your own against the Pit Dogs. Then you can learn and become better through experience." He moved on without waiting for their reply, leaving them to it. He wasn't about to get stuck in and actually teach them how to use the damn things; they knew how to handle them well enough already, by the look of it.

Walking past Agronak, who was in an animated argument with the two guards while his fan danced around them, pelting his hero with flowers, Gorgoth squinted up at the sun. Still not yet noon. Making his way over to a quiet group of bushes, the warrior-shaman checked that no-one was looking, then dug his hand under his raiment and pulled the Amulet of Kings out from his pocket. The massive ruby and the fine gold chain glittered in the sunlight. Gorgoth could feel the magicka running through it; apparently it was used in a ceremony of some sort at the coronation.

It had never once occurred to Gorgoth to walk away from his Emperor-given duty. It had been the old man's dying wish that he deliver the Amulet to Jauffre; Gorgoth wasn't going to go against that wish. Besides, if the Orc was correct in his understanding, the fate of the Empire could possibly rest on this quest. Without an Emperor, there would be no real Empire. Gorgoth sincerely hoped that the Dragon Blood in the Emperor had been right to choose him for this quest; the Blades would likely have been more efficient.

Footsteps crunched on the grass, breaking through his thoughts. Gorgoth shoved the Amulet back under his raiment and turned to face the source of the footsteps. A Dunmer gladiator walked past, nodding to Gorgoth in greeting. Gorgoth nodded back and took another look at the sun. It was almost directly overhead. The warrior-shaman sighed and looked towards the Market District. An early lunch wouldn't hurt.

* * *

Aerin breathed a sigh of relief as the Orc stomped off in the direction of the Market District. She felt sure that he wouldn't hesitate to kill her if he'd known that she'd sneaked into the bushes to spy on this intriguing Orc. No wonder he'd been so secretive. The Bosmer's eyes were still wide as she walked back to the practise range; it wasn't every day you saw the Amulet of Kings in the hands of an Orc. There were rumours around that the Emperor was dead; Aerin had thought that a bit premature, the old man had only been missing for two days, but the sight of the Amulet in those green hands had shaken her. Who _was_ Gorgoth gro-Kharz?

* * *

**A/N: Yes, another gentle reminder: Review.**


	7. The Last Bloodletting

**A/N: An explanation is in order. The reason this took so long to upload is simply that my computer died for two and a half weeks. As you can imagine, it was insanely annoying, as I could have easily been churning out chapters every few days in the time I had. I'll now have to make do with what time I've got...**

**Many thanks to those of you who reviewed, but updates will be slow...**

* * *

**Chapter Seven: The Last Bloodletting**

The sun was edging past its noonday peak when Gorgoth returned to the Arena. Branwen and Saliith were still diligently practising; too absorbed to notice the Orc as he walked past. The warrior-shaman was in a good mood; soon he'd have enough money to get his armour and be on his way to Weynon Priory, out of this dishonourable world of bloodsport. He even returned Hundolin's nervous greeting with a nod as he entered the bloodworks.

Owyn was nowhere in sight. A Pit Dog pointed him in the direction of the gladiator's stands, where the Blademaster was watching a match just about to start. Gorgoth headed up the wooden stairs, which creaked and groaned under his weight. The sun's rays enveloped him in their warm embrace as he emerged from the tunnel. There were various gladiators gathered, and the Orc elbowed his way through them until he was leaning on the barricade between a Dunmeri Blue team gladiator and Owyn. The crusty Redguard acknowledged him with a grunt before returning his eyes to the Arena.

"I'm telling you, Owyn, her raiment modifications might be illegal, but they can't really be described as an unfair advantage," the Dunmer was saying, leaning casually on the barricade with his eyes fixated on the Yellow team cage. Owyn simply grunted in reply. "Unless you could say it distracts the enemy," continued the Dunmer, laughing. "But you've got to admit, the crowd loves her."

Gorgoth, slightly interested, followed the Dunmer's gaze. Inside the Yellow team's gladiator cage was Aerin, holding Trueshot ready with an arrow nocked. Typical of her personality, she was winking and blowing kisses to the crowd. Gorgoth noted that she really was using every weapon at her disposal, which included the use of her attractive body. Gorgoth's raiment reached to just below his knees, but Aerin's stopped near the tops of her thighs. Completing the picture were her boots, which reached to just above her knees.

Gorgoth tilted his head slightly. "I suppose she trades upper leg protection for ankle and knee protection," he commented to the Dark Elf. "Or maybe you're right, and she does just want to distract the opposition." He snorted. "No good warrior would be distracted by such a thing."

"I guess you're right," conceded the Dunmer as the announcer stepped back, his speech finished. "But I'm not fighting her right now, so I have a right to be distracted." He flashed Gorgoth a toothy grin before turning back to leer at Aerin saunter out of the cage.

The Bosmer was, as usual, supremely confident in herself, her own abilities, and those of her bow. She gave a last wink to the crowd and raised Trueshot, drawing and firing seemingly without aiming. Her opponent, an Orc wielding a one-handed axe and a shield, was an easy target, but he, too, was skilled. The arrow embedded itself in the solid steel of his shield, the sheer power of the projectile throwing him off balance slightly, but he continued his determined advance. With astounding rapidity, Aerin had nocked, drawn, and released another arrow almost before the other had struck. Her second arrow was also blocked, along with her third and fourth. Gorgoth could see the Wood Elf's cockiness disappearing along with the distance between her and the Orc.

"Oh, Vivec, I really hope he doesn't gut her," moaned the Dunmer beside Gorgoth. "She's too good-looking to be wasted in this Arena!" His normally ash-coloured knuckles were white from gripping the barricade. Gorgoth was unconcerned. Everyone died, sooner or later. And the Bosmer's attitude had annoyed him.

The Orc roared and put on a burst of speed, swinging his axe overhead and down in a mighty cleave. Aerin hugged Trueshot to her body and rolled out of the way, slinging the bow onto her back as she got to her feet. The archer snatched a beautiful, curved, elven-made shortsword from her belt and crouched down, one knee bent, the other leg stretched across the sands, ready and waiting for the Orc to make his next move.

She didn't have to wait long. The opposing Warrior growled and charged forward, lashing out with his shield at the same time as chopping down at her outstretched leg. Aerin pivoted on her bent leg and avoided both attacks, leaping up behind the Orc and stabbing him in the lower back. The Warrior tensed and snarled at the sudden pain. He smashed his elbow behind him, catching Aerin in her ribs and throwing her to the sands. Grunting at the stabbing pain, the Orc dropped his shield and slowly turned, Aerin's sinuous shortsword still sticking out of his back. It had sliced through flesh and muscle, but the damage wasn't fatal.

However, the wound slowed the Orc, and that was fatal. Aerin rapidly crawled away and wrenched Trueshot off her back. Rising to a crouch, she nocked, drew, and loosed before the wounded Orc had a chance to reach her. The arrow imbedded itself in his chest. Thick blood started dribbling from his mouth, but still the warrior stumbled on, raising his axe. Aerin scrambled backwards and fired again. The Orc's progress was erratic, meaning that her shot missed his heart and slammed into his shoulder, making him stumble and fall to his knees. He looked up at his enemy. The last thing his yellow eyes saw was the arrow flying towards his head.

Owyn was already on his way back to the bloodworks. The Dunmer gladiator beside Gorgoth was cheering wildly, as was most of the crowd, while the announcer burst into a speech of praise and Aerin raised a clenched fist in victory. Gorgoth merely turned and walked back down to the bloodworks. He had better things to do than watch a half-dressed, flirtatious Bosmer prance around in a sandpit.

Owyn was leaning on the wall near the Basin of Renewal located at the exit of the Yellow team's tunnel, which was identical to that of the Blue team, waiting for Aerin to come and collect her pay; his impatience was apparent to all. Gorgoth walked up and leaned on the wall next to him, folding his arms. Without speaking, Owyn knew what the Orc wanted.

"As soon as she gets her lazy arse down here, I'll get someone else for you to fight," he told Gorgoth, who nodded appreciatively.

It took a few minutes for Aerin to finally swagger her way down the ramp, by which time Owyn was fuming. Gorgoth was surprised that he didn't see steam coming from the Redguard's ears as he rammed the coins into the Bosmer's hands, growled something incomprehensible, and stomped off with a snarl plastered across his face when Aerin simply winked at him. The Bosmer giggled and turned to Gorgoth, her smile slipping when she saw him for some reason.

"Hey, big guy, I need ta ask ya something, OK?" she asked Gorgoth, her voice losing some of its flippancy. She seemed serious for once. "Meet me in the Bloated Float in the Waterfront. Ya can't miss it; it's a bloody big boat that's also an inn." Without giving him time to do more than nod, she sauntered off, drawing appreciative gazes from most of the gladiators in the bloodworks who had a working pair of eyes.

Gorgoth was left with no time to wonder over her abrupt change of disposition, as Owyn was already barging his way through the bloodworks. "I just sent up a Yellow team Khajiit," he growled. "He's got a bloody big axe and a tail that some find distracting." The Blademaster looked Gorgoth up and down. "Shouldn't be a problem for you," he finished, lightly punching the Orc on the shoulder and pushing him in the direction of the Blue team ramp.

The bloody ramp was by now second nature to Gorgoth; he could likely walk up it blindfolded without falling. The damp sand of the path to the gladiator cage crunched under his feet, his footprints bigger and deeper than any others. He could just about distinguish the footprints of the Orc who had fallen to Aerin; there was no return set of prints for that pair of boots.

Curiously, the announcer didn't burst into speech when Gorgoth reached the cage; the warrior-shaman looked up to find the fat Imperial hurriedly draining water from a jewelled goblet. He coughed and started his usual boring speech. Gorgoth idly wondered how much the man was paid as he cast his usual cocktail of defensive spells. His eyes dropped to the cat in the opposite cage. The Khajiit clutched a silver-enamelled battleaxe like he knew how to use it.

As the announcer ended his oddly short speech, Gorgoth charged out of the cage and rushed to meet the Yellow team combatant. The Khajiit's teeth were bared in a snarl, and his ears lay flat on his head. As always in the heat of combat, Gorgoth's impeccable control of his emotions slipped, and a snarl crept over his fearsome features. Back in Orsinium, a few of his companions had said of him: 'when Gorgoth snarls, expect a lot of blood', as battle was the only time the Orc's control of his outward demeanour even slightly slipped by accident.

The Khajiit leapt into the air, spinning his entire body to put his weight behind the axe, aiming at Gorgoth's midsection. The warrior-shaman ducked low under the blow and smashed his fist into the cat's knee. Still in midair, the Brawler spun and landed in a heap, quickly rolling to his feet and hissing at Gorgoth. Both Brawlers crouched and circled each other, the incessant roars of the crowd urging them on.

Gorgoth moved in swiftly. His mace smashed into the Khajiit's axe with the harsh grating of steel grinding on steel. While both his opponent's hands were occupied, Gorgoth moved closer and slammed his left fist into the Brawler's ribs, once, twice, three times. As the cat sidestepped in an attempt to get away, still locking weapons, Gorgoth put all his strength into a savage kick into his opponent's right knee, while decreasing the pressure from his mace. The Khajiit howled as his knee was dislocated, his leg bending so far the wrong way that the audience gasped in sympathy.

The Yellow team combatant was down but still deadly. One hand gripped the haft of his battleaxe, and his eyes stared hatred at Gorgoth as the Orc moved in for the kill. His disadvantageous position meant that the Khajiit could no longer block effectively, and a feint from the warrior-shaman caught him out. A hissing roar of sheer agony erupted from the cat's throat as Gorgoth smashed his mace into his collarbone, forcing it through the unfortunate cat's left shoulder. Those in the audience who could see the white of the bone sticking reacted with a mixture of disgust and joy.

"Please... end it quickly," gasped the Khajiit, his face a picture of pain. Gorgoth granted his opponent's last wish by crushing the cat's skull with his mace. Cheers erupted from the audience, and the announcer, who had been anticipating the moment, leapt from his chair to burst into yet more rhetoric. Gorgoth wondered if anyone actually listened to the man as he walked out of the Arena down to the bloodworks.

"A hundred fifty," grunted Owyn as he tossed Gorgoth his pay. "You're getting better known, Bloodletter. Might end up making a name for yourself."

"Not likely," replied Gorgoth, stashing the bag of coins under his raiment. "I won't be staying for much longer. I've got business." The Orc was unsure of what would happen when he delivered the Amulet to Jauffre, but he knew one thing for sure; he wouldn't be returning to the Arena any time soon.

"That's what they all say..." growled Owyn as he turned on his heel and stalked off.

Gorgoth sat down on a nearby bedroll and started counting his money. He'd paid for three meals at the Feed Bag, and tossed a coin to a beggar earlier, but those were his only outlays. Five hundred and six drakes should be enough to get most of the armour Varnado had promised, but, just to be sure, Gorgoth resigned himself to fighting one more battle. It wasn't as if he had anything else to do, apart from meet Aerin at the Bloated Float.

Stopping briefly to heal Branwen, who'd been stabbed by Saliith when their sparring grew intense, Gorgoth headed over to where he assumed the Waterfront would be. He ended up completely lost in the maze of streets that was the Imperial City. Asking guards for directions several times, the Orc finally made it to the Waterfront.

One of the more friendly guards had warned him to watch his pockets; the Waterfront was supposedly rife with thieves, bandits, and the like, and most of it wasn't heavily patrolled. Gorgoth could see why: The docks and lighthouse were typically Imperial and well-maintained, but most of the Waterfront was a slum, with small, dilapidated shacks lining the dirt streets, much like large areas of the city of Orsinium. Dirty, destitute dwellers easily outnumbered the few guards who were patrolling away from the docks.

Gorgoth shouldered his way through the crowds, heading towards the Bloated Float, which was, thankfully, clearly indicated. His pockets were secure under his raiment, so it would take a brave or foolish thief to attempt to take Gorgoth's gold or the Amulet. Gorgoth guessed that his size also worked in his favour; his passive, mostly unintended intimidation was working unexpected wonders in Cyrodiil.

The simple plank of wood leading to the Bloated Float groaned under Gorgoth's weight. As he entered, a large Orc, clearly a bouncer, looked up, nodded in greeting, then went back to observing the numerous patrons, who were in various states of intoxication. Gorgoth was looking around, trying to locate Aerin, when the Bosmer materialised at his right elbow. "We need to talk. My place," she muttered, turning and walking out of the pub without waiting for a response. Gorgoth shrugged in response to the bouncer's inquisitive look and followed her out.

Aerin had found time to change back into her usual leather armour, but she was curiously ignoring the many leers she was receiving as a result, merely looking back occasionally to check that Gorgoth was following as she led him down a maze of streets. The shacks all looked the same; pathetic, badly-built one-room affairs. Gorgoth could probably tear one down with his bare hands. As they progressed further into the Waterfront, the streets got dirtier, the shacks got even more badly built, and the criminals got bigger. Predictably, it didn't take long for Aerin's looks to land her in trouble. Three dangerous-looking men, two Imperials and a Dunmer, menacingly fell in beside her, apparently failing to notice Gorgoth trailing behind. "Ok, love," growled one of the Imperials, a huge, burly man with a rough beard and bloodshot eyes. "Down the next alley on the left. Don't struggle and we won't make it hurt too much."

Aerin dashed forward and spun to face them, hands resting on the pair of elven shortswords crossed at her waist. The three men grimaced and grasped their own weapons. "So, you want to play it like that," snarled the Dunmer, reaching for his club. Gorgoth cleared his throat, a mighty rumble. The three criminals turned and immediately grew grim.

"Hey, friend, leave us alone, and we have no problems, savvy?" asked the other Imperial, this one thin, wiry, and with breath stinking of cheap alcohol.

Gorgoth's facial expression didn't change; he merely reached out with his arm and swung it in an arc, palm outwards. A stream of thick green magic flew from his hand, enveloping the would-be rapists. Before they had time to react, the illusion magic had dissipated, but their bodies were now as stiff as boards. With shocked expressions frozen on their faces, all three criminals hit the ground and lay there, gazing helplessly up at the sky. Gorgoth simply stepped over their paralysed forms and motioned for Aerin, who was looking at him with awe, to continue.

"I've never seen paralysation magic used like that," she said to him, staring up at him with new-found respect. "Who taught ya to do that?"

"No-one; no self-respecting shaman would rely entirely on another's teaching," replied Gorgoth. The three criminals were still lying helpless as they turned a corner. "I developed that spell, and many others, myself."

Aerin whistled in admiration as she approached a shack that looked identical to the shoddy buildings surrounding it and rammed a key into the rickety door. Gorgoth couldn't really see why she locked it; a good kick would probably collapse the entire structure, let alone the door. The Bosmer rammed the door open with her shoulder and gestured to him, telling him to get inside.

Gorgoth squeezed past her into her shack. She shut the door and moved to sit on the bed as he observed his surroundings. There was a single, small, unmade bed shoved against the wall. A small stove sat in the corner, and bloody hooks hang from the ceiling, clearly used to hang animal carcasses from. Light streaming from the three small windows revealed the large quantities of dust spread over the bare wooden floor; the entire shack was a mess, with random books, food, and arrows lying everywhere. Typical of its owner's personality. A small table was bare and had two small chairs nearby. Aerin, sitting on the bed with a booted foot resting on one knee, motioned for him to take a chair, but, looking down at the spindly, weak excuse for a chair, Gorgoth grunted.

"Think I'd best stay standing," he muttered, leaning back against the door and folding his arms.

"Suit yourself," sighed Aerin. "I need to talk to ya, big guy. I was watching in the Arena grounds. I probably shouldn't have sneaked up on ya, but, you kinda radiate adventure, ya know?" She looked nervous, unconsciously twisting a tress of her auburn hair.

Gorgoth's face might as well have been hewn from granite for all it reacted to Aerin's statement. "Go on," he rumbled.

"I saw the Amulet of Kings." The sentence escaped the Bosmer's lips in a rush, and she looked up at Gorgoth, nervously anticipating his reaction. His face didn't change. Nor did he speak. Unnerved by the growing silence, Aerin nervously stood and started chewing her bottom lip. "And, I was wondering, if ah... well, you know, some say the Emperor is dead. Know anything about that?" Still no reaction. The Orc hadn't even blinked. Aerin was starting to wonder if he'd accidentally paralyzed himself when he reacted.

She wasn't expecting an explosion of speed from the massive Orc, whose head brushed the ceiling. Nor was she expecting to be grabbed roughly by the throat and slammed against the wall of her own shack so hard that the entire structure shook and the air was forced from her lungs. Her feet scrabbled pathetically from two feet up in the air. However, what scared her most was Gorgoth's face; it still remained emotionless. No outward indication of what he was feeling; apart from those steely yellow eyes boring into her skull.

"Did you tell anyone else?" grated Gorgoth. Aerin could only gurgle and frantically beat at his hands to indicate that she couldn't breathe. The huge Orc loosened his grip slightly.

"No, I'm honestly not that stupid," she gasped as soon as she could draw air into her lungs. She was drawing breath for another statement when Gorgoth abruptly released her. Not expecting this sudden freedom, she collapsed into an undignified heap, massaging her throat as she unsteadily got to her feet.

Gorgoth was rubbing his chin, considering what to do with this over-inquisitive Bosmer. He'd already dismissed the thought of killing her; she was innocent, and had merely let her curiosity get the better of her. However, she possessed so little knowledge that it might be dangerous; Gorgoth admitted that a massive Orcish warrior-shaman only recently arrived in Cyrodiil but in possession of the Amulet of Kings would look suspiciously like an Emperor's killer. Gorgoth decided to throw caution to the winds.

"The Emperor is dead," he confirmed. Aerin paused in her massaging and stared at him. "I only witnessed his death through pure coincidence. Take a seat; this might take some believing." He himself moved back to lean on the opposite wall as Aerin shakily sat back down on the bed. Gorgoth raised his right hand and focused his magicka; sounds from the outside world, such as footsteps on the path and voices of passers-by, faded from existence.

"What...?" asked Aerin, wondering over the sudden absence of sound.

"Another spell I developed myself," grunted Gorgoth by way of explanation. "A variation of a very old Silence spell. It encases a certain area with Illusion magic, so that no sound gets in our out. For now, no word leaves this shack. Very useful for dealing with eavesdroppers."

"Yeah, yeah, nice spell and all that, but can we talk about Uriel?" asked Aerin, regaining some of her old cockiness, though she was still shaken by how quickly Gorgoth had rendered her helpless.

The warrior-shaman leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. "I was taken to Cyrodiil to be thrown into the Imperial prison for reasons that I won't discuss; they are not important. I woke up wounded and under the influence of a Silence spell. Not a pleasurable first impression of the first real foreign nation I have visited." Gorgoth grunted without opening his eyes. "What is important, however, is that Uriel himself arrived at my cell." He now opened his eyes to observe the Bosmer's expression; she was clearly as shocked as he had been.

The Bosmer opened her mouth, but Gorgoth continued over her. "His sons had been killed by assassins. His Blades were taking him through a secret escape tunnel that ran through my cell."

"Nice coincidence, huh?" A smirk had crept onto Aerin's face, though she was still paler than normal. Gorgoth ignored her.

"To cut a long story short, we made it through the tunnels to a locked gate. We were ambushed, and, the Emperor, who all this time has been talking about his destined fate and how the Divines guide us all, put the Amulet in my hands and told me to take it the Grandmaster of the Blades." Gorgoth' eyes had closed again; he didn't normally speak this much.

"What's the point of keeping the Amulet safe if there's no Dragon Blood ta wear it?" asked Aerin.

"Uriel claimed to have another heir somewhere, and that Jauffre knew how to find him," replied Gorgoth. "He might be a bastard, but he's the last of the Dragon Blood on Nirn, so only he can relight the Dragonfires." The Orc stopped leaning on the wall and straightened. The tops of his braids brushed the ceiling, but he ignored them. "Now you know everything you need to know."

"So... you've been told by the Emperor himself to get to this Grandmaster and give him the Amulet?" Aerin was rubbing her chin, her foot incessantly tapping the floor, evidently deep in thought. Gorgoth nodded. "In that case, why are you busy kicking arses in the Arena when you have this Imperial quest to carry out?"

Gorgoth tapped his raiment. "You expect me to go traipsing around a country I've never been to, wearing this sorry excuse for heavy armour?" he growled. "I told you before, once I get my armour, I'm out of here, off to Weynon Priory."

"A powerful mage like you, waiting on some armour ta be made?" Aerin didn't quite seem to have grasped Gorgoth's mentality.

"Relying exclusively on magic will inevitably lead to vulnerability, which I'd rather not expose myself to when I'm carrying what might be the last hope of all Nirn in my pocket," explained Gorgoth. "Now I'm off to see if Owyn can get me set up with one last match; it'll be all I need to pay for my new armour." The Orc turned to leave, but was stopped by Aerin putting a hand on his shoulder. She had to stretch up to reach.

"Were ya taken to the Imperial prison wearing armour?" she asked. Gorgoth nodded, not willing to explain why he had been taken to be executed. "Then why don't ya try and get it back? It'll be a damn sight better than what they have on offer here."

Gorgoth snorted. "An ex-prisoner, supposed to be scheduled for execution, walks back into the prison and demands his armour back?" Gorgoth shook his head. "No, I've long given up any hope of getting it back; it's better to kill hope early than maintain false hope."

"Well..." Aerin bit her lower lip again. "I could try ta get it back for ya. As a kind of repayment for helping me out against those thugs earlier, ya know?"

Gorgoth shrugged and dispelled the Silence spell that had invisibly coated the walls of the shack. "Feel free to try," he grunted, opening the door. "I'll come back here after my next match. Good luck, though I will be surprised if you pull anything off." He paused with a hand on the doorframe. "And thanks. Thanks for offering." With that, he walked out into the street.

The Orc had already resigned himself to the fact that he would have no clue how to get out of the maze of dirt streets of the Waterfront, so he walked over to a nearby beggar crouching at the street corner. The scrawny Imperial looked up fearfully as Gorgoth approached, and the warrior-shaman would be the first to admit that he didn't look particularly charitable. However, the beggar swiftly brightened and knuckled his forehead when Gorgoth slipped him two drakes, and promised him three more if he took him back to the docks.

The beggar's eagerness for coin meant that Gorgoth was swiftly back at the docks, from which he could return to the Imperial City proper and find his way back to the Arena. Thanking the Imperial and giving him the promised drakes, Gorgoth managed to find his way back to the Arena in just under, by his approximation, an hour and a half.

Gorgoth was about to enter the bloodworks when the door flew open and Saliith walked out. Blood stained his two shortswords, but the Argonian looked happy. At least, the expression on his face looked like one of happiness; it was hard to tell with Argonians. Apon seeing Gorgoth, Saliith's smile grew wider.

"Good to see you, Gorgoth," rasped the Argonian. "Since you left, me and Branwen joined. Now each of us has a battle behind us. Thanks for the tips; I'd have been gutted in that last fight if I'd used my fists." The Argonian seemed genuinely grateful.

"My pleasure," muttered Gorgoth, shouldering his way past the lizard and entering the bloodworks. Saliith shouted a farewell which Gorgoth responded to by giving a nod over his shoulder before the heavy door banged shut.

The bloodworks was at its usual afternoon peak. Gorgoth ducked around various weapons as he looked around for Owyn. He found the Blademaster in an animated argument with Branwen, who, as Gorgoth approached, threw up her hands in frustration and stormed off. Owyn grimaced after the Redguard Pit Dog, then shook his head and leaned back against the bloody wall.

"I won't ask," muttered Gorgoth, shooting a glance at Branwen's retreating back.

"Wise," replied Owyn. "Get up the ramp, I'll see about getting you a match. Might be a challenge this time."

Gorgoth, telling himself that this would be the last time, jogged up the ramp as Owyn went off to find a Yellow team Bloodletter. He hoped that it would be the last time he had to climb this ramp, to barge through the hand-printed door, to be forced to fight for the good of a roaring, bloodthirsty crowd. Gorgoth hated them.

There was no-one present in the Yellow Team cage when Gorgoth entered the Arena. The announcer, seeing only one combatant, didn't bother getting up. Gorgoth simply cast his usual spells, folded his arms, and waited. After a few minutes, the announcer hauled himself to his feet as a Redguard entered the cage opposite Gorgoth. He was wearing a heavy raiment, with a mace, sword, and numerous daggers hanging from his belt. The shield on his back confirmed Gorgoth's suspicions that this was a very versatile warrior.

Ignoring the announcer's speech, Gorgoth focused on his opponent, sizing him up. The Redguard was doing exactly the same thing. Gorgoth could tell that, unlike any other warrior that had fallen to him before in the Arena, this one was competent. Redguards were natural warriors, and this one looked well-trained and experienced. Gorgoth had to move carefully. He most certainly didn't want to be killed in an Arena far from home for the amusement of others.

The cages opened. The Redguard, without drawing any of his weapons, slowly walked out towards the centre of the Arena. Gorgoth did the same. They stopped, facing each other, several metres apart.

"May your death be good and honourable, Orc," saluted the Redguard in a clear voice.

"I will make sure your death is honourable," replied Gorgoth. He slammed his fist over his heart. The Redguard returned the salute, and bent to wash his hands in the sands of the Arena. He straightened and drew his longsword, grabbing his shield off his back at the same time. Gorgoth had to keep the Redguard at a distance, or the smaller, more agile warrior could dance around him. For this purpose, he summoned a weapon.

Red sparks flashed as a long polearm appeared in Gorgoth's right hand. A five foot staff of daedric metal was topped by two and a half feet of sharpened daedric steel. The Redguard nodded in admiration as Gorgoth firmly grasped the bound glaive with two hands, ready for action.

The Yellow team Bloodletter moved first, darting in, sword swinging. Gorgoth moved swiftly to parry, the haft of his glaive knocking away the sword. The Redguard swing the sharp edge of his shield at Gorgoth's head. The Orc ducked under the blow and charged, swinging up the blunt end of the glaive with the intention of smashing it into his opponent's chin. However, the Redguard reacted too quickly, sidestepping away from the glaive and executing a forward roll out of danger.

The Redguard attempted to attack Gorgoth several times, but each time he was forced to fall back due to the superior reach of the Orc's summoned glaive. Attempts to get closer and move around to strike at Gorgoth's flanks also proved futile against the weapon's reach. Gorgoth was grateful of his decision not to use his mace; the weapon was long, but not long enough to keep the Redguard far enough away.

As Gorgoth once more parried the Redguard's sword, the Orc went on the offensive, glaive twirling like a huge quarterstaff. The Bloodletter blocked them all easily, but he was being forced back against the wall of the Arena. Seeing the danger, he ducked under a slash and rolled forward, coming up with a powerful stab at Gorgoth's right leg. It was a risky move, but it worked. The force behind the stab was enough to penetrate Gorgoth's magical shielding. The Orc grunted at the sudden, sharp pain and kicked the Redguard away with his other leg. His opponent flew several metres, but knew how to take a fall; he was soon back on his feet. The Redguard's sword was stuck in Gorgoth's leg, so he drew his mace.

Gorgoth grunted as he hobbled towards his opponent. An entire foot of steel poked out the back of his thigh, meaning that the blade was too deeply embedded to pull out quickly enough, and he wasn't about to throw the weapon where the Redguard could potentially reclaim it. Instead, Gorgoth fought through the pain; he'd long since trained his body and mind to ignore pain. Distractions could kill.

The Redguard sprang at Gorgoth, jumping and swinging his mace at the Orc's face. Gorgoth dropped to his good knee and swung his glaive, knocking the Redguard's feet away, which resulted in the Bloodletter landing in a heap. Gorgoth moved much more swiftly on his wounded leg than his opponent could have anticipated; he was on his feet and slashing down at the Redguard within seconds. His opponent rolled out of the way, but not quickly enough; the daedric glaive slashed open his ribs, ignoring the heavy raiment as though it was paper.

Gorgoth could see that his opponent's face was a mask of agony as he struggled to his feet. He dropped his shield, but clutched his mace ever tighter, staring up at Gorgoth with defiance in his eyes. Gorgoth respected his fighting spirit, and raised his glaive in another salute.

"You fight well, brother of battle," he grunted. "What is your name?"

"As do you," muttered the Redguard, blood dribbling from his mouth. "I am known as Rhesus. Am I to know the name of the warrior that I face?"

"I am Gorgoth gro-Kharz," replied Gorgoth simply. "Malacath will be impressed by your strong spirit. You fight well."

Rhesus merely nodded and closed in again. Gorgoth bent his knees, ignoring the agony of his wound, and held his glaive in one hand, pointing it at the opposing Bloodletter like a spear. Mace held high, the Yellow team combatant charged. Gorgoth thrust with the glaive. Rhesus spun, the blow glancing off his armour, and brought his mace crashing into the Orc's left flank. Gorgoth felt his ribs bend and crack under the force of the blow; his weakened right leg was unable to take the force, and he collapsed onto his back. Rhesus smashed his foot down onto Gorgoth's right arm, pinning his glaive and raising his mace once more. Gorgoth, ignoring the surges of agony in his ribs, reached up and pulled his opponent's left leg out from under him.

Rhesus fell to the sands beside Gorgoth, throwing his mace away and pulling out a dagger. Gorgoth surged to his knees and smashed his fist into the Bloodletter's face. There was a sharp snap as Rhesus's nose broke, but the Redguard ignored the pain and stabbed at Gorgoth's chest. The Orc was too close, and the Redguard too quick, for him to dodge, but the dagger lacked the force behind it to penetrate both the protection of the raiment and Gorgoth's magics. The warrior-shaman grabbed his opponent's belt, ripped a dagger out of its scabbard, and plunged it into his opponent's chest. He brutally dug the blade in and slashed downwards, spilling the Redguard's guts out. Gorgoth staggered to his feet and stepped back.

The wound was fatal, and Rhesus knew it. He took one look at the dagger's hilt, and then his head dropped back, his eyes looking at the sky, smiling at the beauty of a cloud drifting by. Gorgoth let his glaive, which had been thrown away during the struggle on the sands, dissipate into a handful of sparks. He knelt by the side of his defeated opponent.

"You... fought well... brother of... battle," slurred Rhesus, blood pouring from his mouth and sliding down his cheek. His nose was a smashed ruin, and blood poured from his gaping wound, his entrails drooping onto the sands.

"As did you, worthy opponent," rumbled Gorgoth. "Malacath will watch over your soul." He straightened, grabbed the hilt of Rhesus's sword, and wrenched it out of his leg, ignoring the terrible ripping of the muscles and tendons. The Redguard's hand weakly grasped for it, and Gorgoth eased the hilt into the Bloodletter's hand, closing the tanned fingers around it. The warrior, staring up at the sky, his blade in his hand, stained with the blood of his enemy, smiled as he breathed his last.

The crowd was oddly silent as Gorgoth closed Rhesus's eyes and straightened. He saluted the fallen Redguard once more, then turned and limped back to the bloodworks. He had spilt blood in that cursed Arena for the last time.

After fully submerging himself in the Basin of Renewal, his leg healing completely, Gorgoth collected his payment from Owyn in silence and proceeded to a quiet corner of the bloodworks. He ripped off his raiment, leaving him in nothing but the filthy, sweaty rags he had been wearing in the Imperial prison. The Orc ripped the belt off the raiment, and attached it to his waist, the weight of his mace comfortable at his side. The warrior-shaman walked over to the raiment cupboard, threw his raiment in, closed the door, and started walking out of the bloodworks, hopefully never to return. A deep voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Gorgoth, wait!" Agronak jogged up to his fellow combatant. "I won't stop you leaving, but I have a favour to ask."

Gorgoth turned to the half-Orc, his expression stoic as always. "Speak," he invited.

"You don't have to do this, I'm only asking because you might get the chance to." Agronak paused, as though thinking up what to say. "You know of my heritage? That I am a lord's son, but can't prove it?" Gorgoth nodded. "I am the heir of Lord Lovidicus, lord of Crowhaven, about a day's journey from Anvil. My mother fled when her pregnancy became known to Lady Lovidicus."

"Does Crowhaven still exist?" asked Gorgoth.

"Yes, I know that much," replied Agronak. "Apparently, it's fallen into ruin, but there could still be some proof of my noble blood there. I want..." the Grand Champion sighed. "You must know how I feel. I want to show the people of Cyrodiil that an Orc can be noble in blood as well as deed." He looked to Gorgoth for confirmation. The pure-blood Orc nodded in sympathy. For centuries, Orcs had been the outcasts, the 'Pariah Folk', with no land to call their own, spat on by the more 'civilised' races.

"I'll see what I can do," assured Gorgoth. "If I ever pass by Anvil, I'll be sure to travel to Crowhaven." He turned to leave, but Agronak stopped him again.

"Here, take this," he muttered, pressing an old iron key into Gorgoth's green palm. "My mother gave it to me; she never said what it unlocked, only that it was important." Agronak gripped Gorgoth's shoulder. "Good luck, friend. I hope we meet again."

Gorgoth gripped his fellow Orc's shoulder in return, then turned and left the bloodworks, letting the door slam behind him. The sundial outside the Arena indicated that it was nearly four hours past noon. The Orc set off for the Waterfront; he still had several hours before Gin-Wulm would finish his armour.

Moving through the City in nothing but his prison rags with an expensive-looking mace at his hip, Gorgoth realised that he looked more than a little suspicious, but he was beyond caring. It was better than his Arena raiment, which was now soiled with the blood of an honourable warrior. Rhesus had been about Gorgoth's age; he could have accomplished a lot with his life. Instead, he had died on the sands of an Arena used for the entertainment of the bloodthirsty masses. Gorgoth forced the snarl from his face and continued on to the Waterfront.

Ignoring the suspicious looks given to him by the guards when he asked directions, Gorgoth made it to the Waterfront quicker than he had last time. He employed another beggar – it might have been the same one as before, he wasn't sure, they looked very similar – to take him to Aerin's shack. The beggar didn't know her by name, but he did remember the 'flirty Bosmer' that lived in the shack. Once they reached her shack, Gorgoth gave the beggar five drakes and entered without knocking.

Aerin was sitting on her bed, reading a book, with one leg resting on her opposite knee. She looked up as Gorgoth rammed the door shut with enough force to make the entire structure shake. "You could have knocked," she observed dryly, throwing the book carelessly over her shoulder. It landed on the floor, its page splayed out and the title easily readable: _The True Nature of Orcs_.

Gorgoth ignored her observation. "Did you get it?" he asked, looking around for his armour without getting his hopes up. It was nowhere in sight. Just as he expected.

"The armour had been taken by the Legion to melt down to make new armour," growled Aerin, kicking at a nearby book. "Your mace had been taken as a trophy, and any gold you had was divided amongst the guards." She walked over to her small wardrobe and wrenched open the doors. "They did, however, still have your clothing, which I barely managed to carry back here. Partly because of the weight, and partly because of the smell." The Bosmer, wrinkling her nose, dragged out a large canvas bag and threw it at the Orc's feet. The stink of stale sweat and Orc blood reached Gorgoth's nostrils.

The Orc reached down and turned the bag upside down, emptying its contents onto the floor. "Finally," he growled. He'd swiftly grown tired of his thin, ragged prison cloth. He ripped off every stitch and started rummaging around in the pile. Aerin grunted and immediately spun to face the wall, a pink flush spreading over her face. "For someone who dances around half-dressed in a massive sandpit before hundreds of Imperials, you seem pretty modest," grunted Gorgoth, pulling on his long, loose-fitting black cotton trousers.

The Bosmer took a tentative peek around her shoulder, then turned her full body round. "It's actually very different," she started, but Gorgoth just snorted and buckled his weapon belt. Aerin sighed and rolled her eyes. Gorgoth reached down and pulled on a thick black cotton undershirt that left his arms bare, leaving bare biceps that were as big as Aerin's head. Remaining on the floor was a pair of fur-lined trousers designed to fit over the pair he was already wearing, and a shirt made completely from thick wolf fur. Cyrodiil was too hot for the normally essential clothing, so Gorgoth repacked it into the bag.

"Furs? It is nearly summer, ya know," observed Aerin.

"You can freeze to death any time in the Wrothgarians," commented Gorgoth. "You get snow on the peaks all year round. Not that you, as a treehugger, would know anything about that." He finished packing and slung the bag over his shoulder.

Aerin bristled at his comment about her race, but didn't mention it. As the Orc opened the door, she stepped forward. "So, what are ya gonna do now?" she asked.

Gorgoth turned. "I'm going to pick up my new armour from the Best Defence," he replied. "After that, there will be no more delays. I'm off to Weynon Priory as fast as these legs can carry me." The Orc nodded to Aerin. "Thanks for the help. Appreciate it." He turned to leave again, and again Aerin's voice stopped him.

"Hey, big guy, could I, ah..." She awkwardly shuffled up to him, hands clasped behind her back to stop her fiddling with her hair. "Thing is, it's getting bloody boring here in the City," she blurted out. "The hunt is too easy, the Arena is too easy, and there's just no adventure, ya know what I'm saying?" A glance at the Orc's face revealed nothing; a rock showed more emotion. "So... I was wondering... could I come with ya?" the last five words left her mouth in a rush, and she cautiously peeked up at the warrior-shaman.

"And why would I let myself be slowed down by an annoying Bosmer?" rumbled Gorgoth. "Your legs are a lot shorter than mine, and I will not be resting much on the way to Chorrol-" Aerin cut him off.

"I've got a horse, big guy," she purred, a smile reappearing on her face. "Pretty fast, and she gets the job done. So I wouldn't slow ya down." Aerin mischievously poked the Orc in his chest. It was like poking a cliff. A hot, sweaty, muscular cliff. "And I bet I know a damn sight more about riding than you, big guy." She'd been riding ever since she was fourteen, and had become an avid equestrian, or, at least, as much as one she could afford to be.

Gorgoth's expression didn't change, but he inwardly smirked. He doubted that the Bosmer before him had ever held the reins of a properly trained, fully armoured war horse, or guided it with knees only when the heat of battle demanded both hands on his weapons. He had done both. "Is your horse strong enough to hold both of us?" he asked. He was used to riding massive horses, bred for strength above all else, that could carry an Orc in full battle armour.

Aerin's smile faltered. "Ah... no," she admitted. "Oh, come on, big guy. Do ya really want me ta die of boredom? Besides, those thugs will hate me more than ever now, who knows what they'll think up next when they hear that you've left? What I need is-" Gorgoth tapped her on her head with a finger, effectively cutting off the stream of words.

"If you're coming, come," he grunted, turning and walking out into the street without a backwards glance. Aerin gaped at the space his massive body had occupied, then threw herself into a frenzy of action, belting on her sword and quiver while frantically hunting for arrows. She scooped up as many as she could find, then grabbed Trueshot and raced out of her shack, only to find herself bouncing back to land on her arse. She glanced up at the stone wall she'd hit, only to find it was Gorgoth, who was staring down an Orc only slightly smaller than him.

"I'll tell you only once, Burzukh," Gorgoth was growling. "Move aside. Whether it's Orsinium, Cyrodiil, or the planes of Oblivion, my business is none of yours. Move!"

The other Orc was clad in ragged, filthy clothing, which contrasted perfectly with the fine steel battleaxe on his back. A deep, thick scar ran through a gaping hole where his left eye evidently used to be. He was glaring up at Gorgoth with intense hatred. "You'll not order me, bastard of Gornakh," he spat, clenching a fist so hard that it trembled. "You really thought you could hide from me this long? After you did THIS to me?" Burzukh indicated his ruined face.

"Blame yourself," growled Gorgoth, right hand clenching and unclenching on his mace head. "It was your fault for getting caught up with those idiots in the first place." Aerin could only stare up at the two arguing Orcs, as the street seemed to be rapidly emptying. "I was right to do what I did; you were preying on the weak for your own gain, raping, murdering, pillaging. You and your petty band were a menace, dogs to be put down."

Burzukh's snarl deepened, and he clutched the haft of his battleaxe. "And you unquestionably followed your father's orders like some tame hound, not even standing up to him for what he did to your mother?" hissed the Orc, his face a picture of pure fury. "Mind you, that whore had always had it coming. She always-" Burzukh was cut off by Gorgoth's hand striking like a viper, grabbing his fellow Orc's throat and squeezing. Gorgoth pressed his face closer to Burzukh's.

"I'm only going to tell you this once more, scum," snarled Gorgoth, his voice full of suppressed fury. "Stay away from me, and forget you ever knew me. Go find a hole to crawl into. That will do the whole world a favour." Burzukh snarled and, gripping Gorgoth's fist with his own, ripped it away from his throat. He warily stepped back, but his hate-filled gaze never left Gorgoth.

"Who in Oblivion was _that_?" whispered Aerin, as she hauled herself to her feet and started off, walking beside Gorgoth, casting glances back at the scarred Orc.

"A ghost from my past," growled Gorgoth, not looking back at his enemy. "We're not wasting any more time here. Let's move." His hand on her shoulder hustled her away from her shack and Burzukh, who had spun on his heel and was walking in the opposite direction. Aerin took one look back, and saw the Orc glancing at Gorgoth's back and caressing his battleaxe. The warrior-shaman jerked her so hard she almost fell. "Ignore him; stay focused," reminded Gorgoth, leading the way back to the Imperial City proper.

After a dinner at the Feed Bag, where Aerin bombarded Gorgoth with questions about every subject under the sun, and was rewarded mostly with monosyllabic answers, they headed over to the Best Defence. The sun was low in the sky and was casting long shadows over the paving stones as Gorgoth entered, leaving Aerin leaning aimlessly on a nearby crate.

Varnado was nowhere in sight. Maro Rufus, when asked, jerked his head at the door to the measuring room and went back to reading the latest edition of the Black Horse Courier. Apparently, the Elder Council had seen fit to release the news of the Emperor's assassination. Gorgoth leaned on Varnado's counter to wait.

He didn't have to wait long. A Nord walked out of the measuring room with a huge grin plastered over his face. Varnado followed him out, and, apon seeing Gorgoth, hurried his goodbyes to his customer and walked over. "Good to see you, friend," he smiled, clapping Gorgoth on the shoulder. "Made five hundred drakes betting on you today. Great match against Rhesus, he sure gave you a challenge." The shopkeeper kept up the chatter as he ushered Gorgoth down to the forge.

Gin-Wulm was still hard at work, but Gorgoth was immediately drawn to the suit of massive steel armour against the wall. He hadn't specified a helmet – only Orc smiths had mastered the art of combining helmets and war braids – but the suit would offer excellent protection against any mundane attack without Gorgoth's added magical protection. The Orc walked over and ran a hand over the armour, admiring the quality of the steel and the work of the master who had forged it.

Varnado's smile grew broader. "Up to your expectations?" he asked. Gorgoth simply nodded, rapping the cuirass with his knuckles. The resulting clang sounded solid and reassuring. "Five hundred drakes," reminded Varnado. "But I'd say it's worth every last septim."

"Very true, Varnado," replied Gorgoth. He removed his wallet from his pocket. Fortunately, Aerin had managed to secure it, for which Gorgoth was grateful. It had been enchanted to hold far more cash than appeared possible, so Gorgoth had managed to fit his entire Arena winnings, complete with their original bags, in there without a problem. He dug out the two bags from his Bloodletter matches and two from his Brawler matches, handing them all to Varnado. The shopkeeper pocketed them after hefting them and judging their weight.

"Well, Gorgoth, it's been a pleasure, "said Varnado, shaking Gorgoth's hand vigorously as they made their way back upstairs. "It's been mutually beneficial; I made a lot from betting, and you got some good armour. Good luck with whatever you're doing next."

"Thanks, Varnado," replied Gorgoth, giving the shopkeeper a rare smile. "If anyone I know needs heavy armour around here, I will send them your way." He clapped the smaller Redguard on the shoulder and walked out of the Best Defence.

Aerin looked up as Gorgoth closed the door. She nodded in admiration, an impressed look on her face. Gorgoth was clad from neck to toe in his new armour. Out of it, he looked intimidating and powerful. In it, he looked like a purpose-built killing machine. The steel wasn't up to the standards of the Orc smiths in Orsinium, who were masters at creating durable, thick, and fearsome-looking suits of armour, but, while simple, Gin-Wulm's suit did the job well enough for Gorgoth.

"Nice armour, big guy," complimented Aerin as Gorgoth stretched, getting a feel for the armour.

"It'll do," grunted Gorgoth. He straightened his weapon belt and looked down at the Bosmer. "Lead on. We're going to Weynon Priory."

* * *

**A/N: Next chapter introduces a new main character, though he won't meet Gorgoth or Aerin for a while yet. Review, please.**


	8. Ominous Rumblings

**A/N: Don't expect uploads to come this quickly in future. I've only written this as quickly as possible to make up for lost time during my computer's downtime. Anyhow, thanks to all who reviewed, please keep it up, I like reviews. Speaking of which, time to address those aforementioned reviews:**

**Arty: Just to make it clear to everyone, here's a copy/paste of what I wrote in my review reply: Suppose I really should clear up that Aerin in Blood and Steel is no relation to the Light Armour master trainer in Morrowind, nor the absent Acrobatics master trainer that's meant to be at Aerin's Camp in Oblivion. I just spotted the name in the wiki, liked it, and I'm bad at making up names.**

**Underpaid Critic: Yes, adding more main characters will definitely make the story a lot more complex, but I personally like writing a lot of characters, and I feel it wouldn't be as fulfilling if it was just Gorgoth on his own. Additionally, yes, Gorgoth at the moment finds Aerin annoying and doesn't exactly want her around, but that'll probably change soon, and you'll probably soon see that she's not dead wood for him to haul around...**

**Sneer: Apologies, but the new character introduced in this chapter won't be as interesting as Gorgoth, mainly because he's not original. Though I like expanding on the characters of NPCs, bear in mind that my scope for that expansion is more limited, as Bethesda made these characters, not me. Still, I'll do my best.**

**Anyhow, this happens to be my longest author's note ever, so I'll shut up and let you get on with reading.**

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Ominous Rumblings**

The stables near the gates of Imperial City were curiously underpopulated. When Gorgoth commented on this, Aerin shrugged it off. "Snak gra-Bura doesn't sell horses. She makes a good enough living just looking after horses of travellers." Gorgoth took one look at the Orc stablemaster and took her aside for a stern lecture on the disadvantages of eating horses instead of riding them. Meanwhile, Aerin had located her horse and led her out of the stable, Gorgoth eventually joining her, Snak's glare following him through the door. The warrior-shaman closed the enclosure's gate him, and turned to cast his eye over Aerin's horse.

"Her name's Firebrand," explained Aerin, patting the named horse. "I bought her a year ago, and she's only ever lived up to her name." The Bosmer giggled as Firebrand took one look at the large Orc standing next to her and snorted. She lived up to her name at the very least in colour; her hair was a brown deep enough to look dark red in most circumstances. Gorgoth moved around her, taking off his gauntlets, running expert hands over her flanks and her muscles. Firebrand impatiently tossed her head, but endured the examination.

"Not bad," concluded Gorgoth, nodding appreciatively. "Not exactly what I'm used to, but she's got a fair turn of speed, I'll wager. And the stamina to back it up. I'd say she's about the perfect horse for you." The Orc looked back down at Firebrand; next to the massive Orc, the horse looked more like a stunted mule. "Not really my type, though."

"I'll say," snorted Aerin, swinging herself into the saddle with practised ease. "If you tried to get your clumsy arse up here, you'd either fall off before a mile, or kill her with your bloody weight." She smirked as she expertly reined in Firebrand as the feisty horse attempted to let loose pent-up energy.

"Not that'd I'd try," replied Gorgoth, leading the way down to the massive bridge. Aerin gently nudged Firebrand's ribs and joined him. Walking side by side, Gorgoth's head was level with Aerin's chest. The setting sun was throwing red reflections over Lake Rumare. Darkness was already approaching from the east. By the time the duo had reached the other side of the lake, the sun had fully set and Masser and Secunda were surrounded by stars.

"Are we stopping for the night in the Wawnet Inn?" asked Aerin, jerking her head towards the named inn. Gorgoth merely snorted; it wasn't even late yet, not by his standards. There was too much time in the night to waste sleeping. He broke into a jog, heading down the road that was signposted to Chorrol. Aerin sighed and booted Firebrand to follow him.

After an hour's travel, Gorgoth could tell that Aerin had long expected him to slow down. The Orc had settled into an effortless lope, armour and all, that covered ground quickly and easily. Long years of experience had made it seem almost second nature to him. Aerin was less experienced, and clearly wasn't expecting to have to keep Firebrand to a quick trot just to keep up with an Orc in plate armour. They had turned off onto the Black Road some time ago, and were entering the fringes of the Great Forest.

"Don't you ever get tired, big guy?" called Aerin to the Orc. His stamina seemed boundless. A grunt was her only answer.

* * *

Ilend Vonius was feeling good. It was the morning after the assassination of the Emperor had been published, but, overall, the population of Kvatch seemed the same as ever. A bit downcast, a bit scared, but, on the whole, coping admirably. The Kvatch Watch Sergeant had had a quiet morning shift patrolling the area around Kvatch's main gate. The Imperial's clear blue eyes, said to be his most distinguishing feature after his long, luxuriant, black hair, were as sharp as a hawk's, but he hadn't seen any trouble yet today. Fine by him.

Ilend, on the outside, seemed like the typical town guardsmen; a simple man, good with a blade and with a sense of duty, eager to help protect the citizens of his town. However, Ilend wasn't as typical as his outward appearance would suggest; he had considerable skill with the silver longsword at his hip, and he'd had long practise in the heavy chainmail armour that was standard issue for the Kvatch guards. The Imperial had been drinking with several members of the local Fighter's Guild branch a few nights back, and was seriously considering joining. There was more danger, true, but that equalled more pay and infinitely less boredom than his current occupation.

Ilend brought himself back to the present; his task was to keep the peace and catch criminals, not dream of a future with the Guild. A roar from the Arena, on the other side of town, reached his ears. It would soon be full. In the few times that the Imperial had been to watch a fight, he'd been impressed by the skill of the gladiators, but knew that he would have the measure of a good number of them if they ever turned to crime, a reassuring thought. Ilend's boots clinked on the stone steps leading to the massive chapel of Akatosh which dominated the city's main square. The huge oak doors only creaked slightly as he pushed them open and stepped into the darkened chapel.

At this time of day, the chapel was virtually deserted, most of the inhabitants of Kvatch going about their normal work. A couple of priests were drifting around the various shrines, generally doing what priests did when they weren't busy tending to their flock. Ilend wasn't one to pry into the business of serving the Divines, but the priests were good for the city, and that meant he often dropped in on them to hear their grievances, of which there were few. He'd also come in sometimes off-duty to pick up a few lessons on how to use his magicka. His affinity for magicka was pathetic; barely enough to cast a fireball, but that could give him a vital edge. Ilend always liked to have the advantage.

One of the priests turned as Ilend walked up to the altar. "How can I help you, Ilend?" asked the youngest priest of the chapel, Brother Martin. In his mid thirties, the priest seemed older than his years, but Ilend had never been able to place his finger on why. He was a powerful enough mage, and had been Ilend's main teacher in learning how to use his puny supply of magicka.

"The usual, Martin," replied Ilend, tucking his gauntleted thumbs into his sword belt. "I ask you if you've seen anything suspicious or something that you're worried about, and I reassure you. That's what we're here for."

Normally, Martin would have responded with an all-clear, and some small talk would ensue before Ilend got back on duty. But this time, the priest frowned and rubbed his chin. Ilend instantly sensed danger. "For once, Ilend, there is something that crosses my mind, regrettably." The priest sighed. "Last night, when I was talking to a beggar outside the chapel, I noticed two men in crimson robes outside the chapel's north door watching me. They departed when I approached them, but they were back again this morning, watching the chapel."

Ilend grunted. "Did you get descriptions?" he asked.

Martin shook his head. "The robes covered them, head to toe," he responded, looking inwards as if in deep though. "One of them was tall but looked thin. Could have been an Altmer."

Sighing, Ilend took off his helmet and ran a hand through his air. He hadn't got enough sleep last night. "Watching a chapel for two days running might be suspicious, but it's not against the law," he muttered, putting his helmet back on. "Sorry, Martin, but-" the priest cut him off.

"I've got a very bad feeling about them, Ilend," he sighed, his face turning grim. "They're still out there now. Would you at least have a word with them?"

"I guess the rest of Kvatch can look after itself for a few minutes," grunted Ilend sourly. He'd been looking forward to a relaxed morning shift. "I'll see what I can do." Martin thanked him and walked over to a citizen who'd just walked in. Ilend left the chapel.

He spotted the two robed figures that Martin had described almost instantly. Not only did they stand out in their blood-coloured robes, but the way they were lounging against a nearby wall screamed the fact that they were watching something. Or someone. Ilend worked his neck, checked his sword, and slowly walked over, making sure his expression was neutral.

The shorter robed figure nodded to the guard, while the taller one, the one Martin thought was an Altmer, seemed to be looking inward, but it was hard to tell when all Ilend could see of his face was a shadow. He sighed and folded his arms. "Citizens, there have been complaints about your loitering here. I have to ask you to explain your presence." Hopefully this would go smoothly. Hopefully they were just people from some harmless cult or some sort who didn't like the Divines. Hopefully they would be responsive and wouldn't give much argument.

"None of your business, guard. Go away," muttered the shorter robed figure. His gravelly voice indicated a Dunmer. Ilend's face hardened. This wasn't looking good.

"The Kvatch Guard upholds the law and protects Kvatch, so, naturally, what you're doing is my business," growled the Imperial, resting his hand on his sword hilt in an intimidating manner. "I asked politely, now I'm asking you again, or we can ask you again at the castle. What are you doing here?"

The Dunmer snorted; his companion was still ignoring Ilend. "I could burn you to a crisp where you stand, Imperial. But that would just mean-" The Dunmer was cut off by his companion snapping back to reality and laying a warning hand on his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, the Dark Elf sighed. "Forgive me. I spoke in error." Ilend was unsure whether he was talking to him or his robed companion. In all his years as a guard, he'd never heard a more false apology.

The taller figure moved forward. "Apologies for my comrade," he murmured, his voice confirming Martin's suspicions that he was an Altmer. "We are merely watching the chapel. Surely there is no harm in that?"

Ilend had opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly realised that there was no harm in watching a chapel, and perhaps he had been a bit harsh on the Dunmer. "Of course, of course," he replied hurriedly. "Sorry for my intruding, but I was just doing my job. Stay safe, citizens." Ilend turned on his heel and walked off, wondering how he could ever have suspected the two robed men. Martin must be paranoid.

Ilend was halfway back to the castle when he stopped short and realised what he'd just done. Even though he couldn't cast them himself, he knew enough to recognise Charming illusion magic when the effects had worn off. "Bastards," he growled, turning around and heading back towards the chapel, his face resembling a thundercloud.

* * *

Gorgoth had been running alongside Firebrand for hours already, yet, despite having only four hours sleep last night when he and Aerin had eventually made camp, only to rise at dawn, the Orc was going strong. He'd recognised the value of time long ago, and there was simply too much time in the night to be wasted no sleep. Four hours was enough to sustain him and keep him in good condition.

Aerin wasn't in agreement; that much was obvious by the way that Gorgoth had to virtually drag her into the saddle when they set off, and her eyes were still visibly heavy. She'd begged for just a few more hours sleep, but the Orc had been unmoveable; he wasn't about to wait for the Bosmer and therefore slow down the return of the Amulet to someone who knew what to do with it. She'd made the decision to come with him, and she'd match his pace or he'd leave her behind.

"When's lunch?" moaned Aerin from the saddle. They'd had cold meat for breakfast, about six hours ago, and nothing since. Her stomach could rumble quite loudly for such a small mer.

"No time to waste," rumbled Gorgoth. "We stop for dinner in five hours." A groan was his only response; the normally active Bosmer was understandably subdued. They'd made undeniably quick progress along the Black Road, passing shocked legion patrols, merchant wagons, and other road users on the way. Bandit activity was light; Gorgoth surmised that a battle-ready Orc in full armour and a Bosmer with a bow on her back didn't look like soft targets.

That meant that the Khajiit in leather armour, clutching a warhammer, was either brave or stupid as he walked out into the middle of the road and growled for them to halt. Aerin, for all her lethargy, managed to whip Trueshot off her back and nock an arrow within seconds, despite the composite bow being a bit big for use on horseback. Gorgoth simply stopped and folded his arms, considering the highwayman with a piercing gaze. The cat raised his right arm.

"I've got a squad of archers at the side of the road," he growled. Aerin quickly checked; he was right. She could see at least three bows drawn in the shadows. "If I lower my hand, they fire," continued the Khajiit. "I'll be reasonable. A hundred drakes each, and I'll call them off."

Gorgoth's emotionless face regarded the Khajiit for a moment more, then, without even looking at the hidden archers, he growled two words.

"Piss off."

The Khajiit smirked. "We prefer to take it all when you're dead anyways," he growled, lowering his hand. Four arrows shot out of the bushes. Gorgoth never moved a muscle as all four bounced off the magical shield he'd surrounded himself and Aerin with. The Bosmer wasted no time in firing back as the Khajiit turned to flee.

Gorgoth stepped forward, hand extended. Fine, thin filaments of lightning sparked out of his fingertips, ensnaring the highwayman. His body jerked as Gorgoth lifted it off the ground and bringing him to face the Orc, his feet two feet off the ground, weak lightning coursing through his body, enough to incapacitate him but not enough to kill. By this time, Aerin had picked off all four archers and heeling was Firebrand forward, ready to shoot down the Khajiit until Gorgoth held up his free hand.

"I developed this spell myself, and it's proven to be very useful," he rumbled, ignoring the frantic gurgling of the Khajiit. "The target is completely helpless, and unless a mage possesses enough willpower to fight through the sheer agony, they're as helpless as anyone else." Aerin shot a questioning sideways look at the Orc, who ignored her, continuing to look at the writhing Khajiit. "The magnitude of the spell can be altered so it's almost harmless-" the tendrils of lightning thinned, and the Khajiit drew ragged breaths, his eyes almost popping out of his head. "- or it can be increased, to immense pain-" the lightning crackled, growing in intensity, the Khajiit in too much agony to scream. "- or you can simply end it quickly." The lightning reached a crescendo, a massive bolt slamming into the Khajiit, the multiple magical forces acting apon him blowing him apart even as his flesh sizzled.

"Ya know, big guy... you're kinda weird," muttered Aerin, swallowing unsteadily as she put Trueshot back on her back.

"So I've been told," muttered Gorgoth. He started running again, past the Khajiit's blackened torso, and Aerin heeled Firebrand after him. "We've wasted enough time here."

* * *

It was hard to sneak up on someone wearing heavy chainmail boots, but Ilend was doing his best. A narrow alley had an exit right next to where the two mer were leaning, still watching the chapel. Ilend, crouched low to the ground, was slowly creeping up on them, hoping to catch some of their conversation. He had no doubts about what would happen if he confronted them directly again.

Unfortunately, the pair of mer didn't seem the talking type, so Ilend settled back on his heels near the mouth of the alley, waiting for a slip of the tongue. The Altmer was clearly using some kind of spell, but Ilend was no mage; he had no idea what the elf was doing. The Dunmer's cowl swivelled in every direction every few minutes; he was clearly looking out for threats. He didn't think to look down the alley, or maybe he was simply unaware of its existence. Either way, Ilend was able to observe them unseen from behind a water barrel.

Eventually, when the time for the end of Ilend's shift was approaching, the Altmer stirred, coming out of his reverie and looking around. The Dunmer turned to him, and Ilend strained his ears to catch their low speech.

"Is it time yet?" muttered the Dunmer.

"Not yet, acolyte," replied the Altmer, cowl swishing as he surveyed the street before them. "You always were impatient. One more day is all we need, by my reckoning, to determine that this is Uriel's bastard. If he is, then you'll get your chance to see Kvatch burn."

It took all of Ilend's self-control not to make any noise as the words reached his ears. He forced himself to stop and think instead of rushing out and confronting them. The Altmer was obviously a mage, and if Ilend failed to get the element of surprise, he doubted he'd be able to overcome both of them. If he died, then the rest of the Kvatch guard would never know of the impending attack until the attack itself came. He had to get back and warn them. Slowly rising, he began to slowly walk backwards down the alley. His legs, aching and tired after the long period of crouching, betrayed him and he stumbled, chainmail clinking loudly as he took several loud steps to steady himself.

"What the- damn! How did I not see that alley?" The Dunmer's voice was harsh as he berated himself. Probably hoping to redeem himself in the eyes of his superior, he dashed around the corner, drawing a dagger from the folds of his robe. Ilend was ready and waiting. He drew his sword, and, in the same motion, slashed through the mer's chest. The Dark Elf's gurgles were cut off when Ilend decapitated him a second later, already hurrying backwards to avoid the body as it fell.

The Altmer hissed in rage as he tripped over the body of his comrade. He was on his feet in a second and sent a green ball of magic towards Ilend. The Imperial dodged and wisely decided that there was no point staying in the narrow alley where he would be an easy target. He spun and dashed down a side path, sprinting out into the street. Nearby townsfolk noticed him and immediately made themselves scarce apon seeing a guardsman with a bloody sword in his hand. Ilend, running for the castle, looked back and was relieved to see the Altmer retreat back into the shadows.

Fortunately, Count Ormellius Goldwine believed the young Watch Sergeant's account, and dispatched squads of guards immediately to hunt down any red-robed figures and bring them to the castle for immediate questioning. Ilend gave the best description he could of the Altmer. Through his extensive debriefing by the Guard Captain, Savlian Matius, Martin's original complaint about the robed figures completely slipped out of Ilend's mind. He only remembered it as he crawled into his bunk after spending the rest of the day fruitlessly searching for the crimson-cloaked would-be invaders. The Imperial made a mental note to check with Martin in the morning. He then remembered something that the Altmer had said... something about 'Uriel's bastard'. Before Ilend could think about it any further, his body had succumbed to sleep.

* * *

After the encounter with the bandits, Aerin had finally woken up properly, and was intensely curious about her new companion. Gorgoth was finding her moderately annoying, but he'd put up with worse before.

"What do ya do back in Orsinium, big guy?" asked Aerin, idly playing with Firebrand's mane as the horse trotted quickly along beside Gorgoth, whose pace didn't mean he couldn't have a conversation.

"I'm a spellsword for hire," he grunted. Sweat was running in rivers down his back, and the only regular stops he allowed were to refill his massive hip-flask to hydrate himself.

"You?" asked Aerin, looking critically down at the Orc running beside her. "You, a mercenary? Come on, don't lie ta me. You're a warlord of some kind, ain't ya?"

"Don't make assumptions about a culture you know nothing about," replied Gorgoth, his face and tone of voice the same as it had been for the last few hours. "I'm a spellsword, nothing more, nothing less."

Aerin sighed and changed the subject; this one was going nowhere. "Don't ya ever smile, big guy?"

Gorgoth looked sideways up at her. "I suppress my emotions in order to remain calm and stoic, which helps me focus on what's important."

"I don't reckon I've ever met an Orc like that, ya know. You NEVER smile?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I smile when there is need of it. But excessive display of emotion could be a potential vulnerability, and I won't entertain something that my enemies could exploit."

"So... you're trying to make yourself invulnerable?" Aerin shook her head in disbelief.

"I'm reducing the number of weak points I have," rumbled Gorgoth. "Any emotion can be pounced on by an enemy and used to his advantage. By not letting him have that advantage, I have a better chance of staying alive."

Aerin threw up her hands in despair. "How did I get saddled with an Orc with no feelings?" she asked the sky. Before Gorgoth could reply, she asked yet another question. "So you've never displayed love ta anyone? Cold-hearted bastard, if you ask me."

Gorgoth snorted. "Think of me what you will. Love is a massive weakness that's incredibly easy to exploit. I simply do not allow myself to feel love. It's better that way."

"You're saying... you've never loved anyone in your entire live? Damn..."

"I loved my mother, though that was before I started conditioning myself," grunted Gorgoth. "She's dead. I suppose the comradeship I feel for some of my brothers of battle could be called a kind of love. But I will not allow myself to be weakened."

Aerin sighed in exasperation and lay down on Firebrand's back. "What about your father?" she asked, hoping to find at least a chink in the Orc's emotional armour.

"You didn't want to ask that question." Gorgoth's face and voice were exactly the same as before, but Aerin knew a warning when she heard it. She shrugged and sat back up in the saddle as they passed an Imperial Legion patrol, the Legionmen looking askance at the odd spectacle of an Orc running along the Black Road with a Bosmer on horseback. "Why don't you ask a question that's actually relevant to our current situation?" suggested Gorgoth. "Or maybe you could shut up entirely. It would be nice, but I doubt if it'll happen in the next century."

Aerin giggled at what she assumed to be the Orc's deadpan attempt at humour, but then realised that he wasn't exactly one to crack jokes, and had probably been serious. "OK, big guy, how long until we get to the priory?"

"Another day's hard ride, by my estimation." Gorgoth turned and looked Aerin straight in the eye. "Four hours sleep, up at dawn tomorrow." The Bosmer groaned. "We should reach Weynon Priory by dusk tomorrow if we keep up this pace, if my map is correct." Aerin simply resigned herself to yet another sleep-deprived night.

When Gorgoth eventually called a halt, Masser and Secunda had been overhead for hours. Aerin was so exhausted she fell asleep almost before she was out of the saddle. Gorgoth got a fire going, chewed on the remainder of the rough meat they'd packed, and filled his hip-flask from a nearby spring. His finely-tuned body clock ensured that he'd be up at dawn, or thereabouts. Removing his armour was a faster process than some would imagine, but with practise came rapidity. The Orc checked that Aerin was still alive, then lay back against a tree and relaxed his body, falling asleep within seconds.

* * *

Ilend wasn't sure what had woken him, but he instantly knew something was afoot. There was an excited murmur of voices in the main barracks downstairs, and the atmosphere seemed tense. The Imperial jumped out of bed and ran downstairs while tugging his undershirt on. A large number of Kvatch guards were gathered in the barracks, all talking in low voices with much arm-waving. Ilend managed to pick up that a red-robed Imperial had been captured and taken to the castle dungeon. He wasted no time, dashing upstairs and throwing on his tunic and chainmail as fast as physically possible. He was walking out of the barracks, shivering in the predawn cold, within minutes.

Ilend managed to get past the jailor by informing him that as he was the only one who'd had previous contact with the mysterious figures in crimson, he was logically a good choice to take part in the interrogation. Walking into the indicated cell, Ilend wasn't surprised to see that it was only Savlian Matius and the prisoner inside; Count Goldwine never had liked to get his hands too dirty. The prisoner was dressed in filthy prison rags and was sporting a nasty-looking bruise on the temple, evidently from where a Guardsman had subdued him. He was sitting in a wooden chair, unrestrained save for a Silence spell cast minutes ago by the Guard's attached Imperial Battlemage. Savlian was leaning on the back of another chair, leaning forward. Evidently, the interrogation hadn't reached any physical levels yet.

Savlian looked up as Ilend entered. "Good to see you, Ilend," he grunted. "I was hoping you might be able to give this idiot's memory a tug, seeing how all he speaks about is how some Daedric Prince is going to kill us all."

"Think I'll go for every verbal approach in the book before I start smashing his face in," replied Ilend, idly cracking his knuckles. The prisoner looked defiant, showing no signs of intimidation. He was in his middle ages, with grey hairs starting to show at the temples. His face was entirely forgettable. "What's your name?" asked Ilend. Apart from his robes, a pair of boots and a potion of healing, nothing had been found on the prisoner, and he didn't live in Kvatch, so there was no house to search.

"I need none," replied the prisoner simply.

"Fine," grunted Ilend. "What do you want with the youngest priest at the chapel of Akatosh?" Ilend knew that his captain hadn't asked that question simply because he didn't know about Martin. The guardsman could feel his superior's curiosity from across the cell.

The prisoner's eyes widened slightly, but he swiftly recovered his neutral expression, saying nothing. Ilend gritted his teeth. This was going to be a tough nut to crack.

"OK, let me guess. You're watching the priest because you think he's the son of the late Emperor, and you have a problem with that, and plan to assassinate him?" Ilend heard Savlian sniggering from across the room at the madness of the idea. Ilend leaned in closer to ask a proper question, but stopped when he saw the prisoner's face. It was a mask of pure shock.

"How... how do you know that?" he stammered, evidently amazed at Ilend's knowledge.

There was a gulp and a slight choking sound from across the room as Savlian nearly swallowed his tongue. Ilend hoped that he had concealed his own surprise better than his captain had. Leaning closer, an intense look appeared in his eyes. "Our sources are not important, but let's just say we know a lot more than you think we do." He fervently hoped that his bluffing was working. "We know Martin is your target. How were you planning to kill him?"

"Not just him," started the prisoner, but abruptly his face grew grim and he shut his mouth, folding his arms and adopting a determined stance.

"Who? Who else are you watching?" Ilend's face contorted into a snarl at the prisoner's continued resistance. "Tell me, damn it," he growled, clenching his fists.

The prisoner looked up at Ilend and smiled. That smile sent shivers down Ilend's spine, but the Imperial shook himself and prepared to get his hands dirty. "You're going to talk, and I'd honestly prefer it if we didn't have to go through the messy business of extracting your knowledge from you," he told the prisoner. The Imperial said nothing, that smile faltering but never fading.

Ilend straightened and nodded to Savlian. They grabbed an arm each and dragged the unresisting prisoner off to the specialised interrogation cells, which had thick walls and good drains.

* * *

Despite Gorgoth waking up every living thing within half a mile putting on his armour, Aerin was still asleep when the sun peeked over the horizon, falling over the auburn hair spilling in strands over her face. Had Gorgoth been a poet with an understanding of Bosmeri beauty, he might have been tempted to think up a verse or two, but, as it happened, all he did was gently kick her in the ribs. She mumbled something, woke, and glared up at him with bleary eyes.

"Come on, big guy," she whined, snuggling further back into the tree she was propped up against and pulling her blanket further up. "Just a few more hours, I need this sleep, I ain't you..."

Gorgoth responded by whipping her blanket off and stuffing it into Firebrand's saddlebags. The Bosmer had slept in her armour, no big inconvenience due to its lightness, but she still shivered as the cold morning air assaulted her warm body. "Feel free to stay behind if you want," growled Gorgoth. "I won't be waiting up for you. You decided to follow me, so you keep up with my bloody pace." He stretched and worked a crick in his neck as Aerin shot him another glare and staggered to her feet.

He gave her five minutes to wash and take a drink in the nearby spring. They'd camped slightly off the road in a nearby hollow, the tall trees of the Great Forest towering over them from every direction. Gorgoth wasn't used to seeing this many trees in one place – Orsinium and the Wrothgarians lacked large forests – but he'd never let his surroundings distract him; in fact, he often found ways to use them to his advantage. Suspecting one day that he'd leave Orsinium, Gorgoth had extensively studied every region of Tamriel, reading every book he could get his hands on in the nearest library, which meant that he was very well educated for any mer, let alone an Orc.

Aerin swayed back into the remains of the camp, looking a bit more awake, retying her most of her hair back into its ponytail. Gorgoth jerked his head in the direction of Firebrand, and the Bosmer sighed and scrambled clumsily into the saddle. The fiery horse had lost some of her eagerness, but still looked like she was aching for a gallop for a few miles instead of being forced to slow down for an Orc.

Gorgoth led the way back to the Black Road and started running again, Aerin wordlessly following, evidently too tired to speak. The silence suited Gorgoth. He liked having peace to think. The sun rose higher in the sky as they travelled, and Aerin finally seemed to wake up properly, enough to start bombarding him with the usual questions.

"So, what happens when we get there?" she asked, voice heavy with sleep.

"Finally, you ask a relevant question," snorted Gorgoth. "What we do is hand the Amulet to Jauffre. That's all the Emperor told me to do, but somehow I suspect there's a bit more to it than a simple delivery."

"Ya think? I doubt they're just gonna let us walk away. The Empire likes ta use people, I hear." Aerin sighed and idly stroked Firebrand's mane.

"It won't be much, I don't think. Probably might not even need us, just send the Blades to secure the heir, wherever he is." Privately, Gorgoth was hoping that Jauffre would actually send him to find the heir himself; it wasn't like he had anything else to do, and the warrior-shaman knew he wouldn't actually think the heir safe until he saw him to the Blades with his own two eyes.

As the two mer continued along the Black road, the sun sank into dark, threatening clouds, with erupted with rain some time later. While Gorgoth ignored the lashing rain, Aerin cursed and fished out a thick travelling cloak from her saddlebags, quite difficult to do while moving at a fast trot. The rain, however, didn't stop her usual questions, which were becoming less frequent. Maybe she was running out of things to ask him, or maybe his replies of grunts and monosyllables were finally putting her off.

"I'm guessing you can use a few weapons apart from that mace, big guy?" she asked. "I guess you can summon pretty much anything ya need. Pretty good, that."

"It would be quicker for me to list the weapons that I'm not skilled in," rumbled Gorgoth. In his life, he had used just about every weapon type in existence to kill someone.

Aerin sniggered, probably having expected something of the sort. "Go ahead," she invited.

After a moment's thought, Gorgoth replied: "I can't easily use daggers, mainly because my hands are too big for most of them." Aerin snorted with suppressed laughter. "I'm not all that good with shortswords, either, mainly because I use them as daggers. And, while I can use crossbows, I don't like them all that much. Prefer bows or magic if I need to hit someone at a distance."

"That it, big guy? You're good with all the rest?" asked Aerin. The Orc nodded as though there was nothing out of the ordinary. "Figures," snorted the archer. "With all that crap about vulnerabilities, I guess you'd want to be able to use any weapon at your disposal." She fingered Trueshot, the silver-plated wood of the bow safe from the rain under her cloak. "How good are ya with bows?"

"I can shoot straight, if that's what you're asking," replied Gorgoth. "And with a good Orc battle bow, I can shoot further than any nonenchanted bow in existence, not that I ever really need to." He'd always preferred magic over arrows for long-range work; magic was more versatile and could hit harder.

"I guess," conceded Aerin. "I take it your own battle bow is as tall as you are?" Gorgoth nodded. "Figures. Big Orcs need big bows, it seems." She sighed. "You can probably tell that Trueshot wasn't made for a Bosmer; it's too big to be a composite made for us." The Wood Elf fingered the bow fondly. "But it's never let me down, and I can use it well enough."

"I know that for a fact," rumbled Gorgoth, remembering her arrow piercing his strongest shield spell and his hand. They'd reached a fork in the road. Gorgoth's raised fist indicated a halt while he dug out his map from under his armour and consulted it, covering it in a magical barrier to keep the rain off it. "We've made better time than I thought," he muttered. "Weynon Priory is just three hours down the right fork. Never thought we'd travel this quickly." The Orc folded up the map and started off down the right fork.

* * *

"So, what did you learn from him, Ilend?" asked Berich Inian, a fellow Kvatch Guardsman, as Ilend vigorously washed the blood off his gauntlets. The interrogation had lasted until midday, and the Imperial was exhausted, but he had an afternoon shift, so there was no time for rest, however much he wanted it.

"Fuck all," snarled Ilend, rubbing at a stubborn stain on one of this knuckles. "I've never seen someone resist interrogation like that. Even after we knocked out half of his teeth, he didn't talk." The Watch Sergeant growled and withdrew his hands from the basin of bloody water.

Berich passed him a towel. "Think he might have been magically suppressed or something?" he asked.

"It's possible," replied Ilend, rubbing his hands dry and pulling his gauntlets back on. "My shift started five minutes ago. Catch you later, Berich." His fellow Imperial nodded a farewell as lend walked out of the barracks, fastening his helmet.

Ilend ignored his normal patrol route and headed straight to the chapel. The Count and Savlian had evidently argued long and hard over whether the prisoner's semi-admissions were to be believed or not, and apparently they were still arguing. Ilend was surprised he couldn't hear the shouting from the streets. As for Ilend himself, he simply didn't know what to think; right now, he was simply focused on extracting as much information from Martin about the crimson-clad agents as possible.

The chapel was the same as usual, with citizens paying their respects to the Nina as usual. Ilend looked for Martin and found him healing an Imperial who'd evidently fallen and broken his arm. Ilend leaned against the stone wall and waited. He didn't have to wait for long.

"So I was right; there was something wrong about those watchers," observed the priest as he joined Ilend.

"So it would seem, Martin," replied Ilend as he pushed himself away from the wall. "We haven't learnt much so far. Is there anything else you know about them?"

Martin shook his head. "I wish I could help more, but I already told you all I know." The priest sighed as another citizen walked in. "Good luck in doing what needs done, Ilend," he said, walking over to the newcomer. Ilend walked out of the chapel, keeping his eyes peeled for red robes.

His patrol was a quiet one; no real disturbance. However, Ilend's gut was churning for some reason. He couldn't place the reason for his discomfort, but the Altmer's claim that Kvatch would burn resounded in his head. Ilend attempted to dismiss it, but he simply couldn't relax while there was a possible threat to the city, and all the Watch Captain and Count could do about it was argue. Ilend had no problems in keeping alert despite his fatigue.

* * *

The sun was peeking out from behind the rainclouds as Gorgoth and Aerin arrived at Weynon Priory. Gorgoth impatiently waited while Aerin stabled Firebrand and hurried into the house.

An aged Breton with a tonsured head looked up as they walked in, Aerin shaking the rain out of her cloak and tossing her hood back. "Welcome to Weynon Priory," he said, standing up, his voice dry. "How can I help you two?" Another monk sitting at the table glanced up, then went back to scribbling a note.

"We need to speak to Jauffre," replied Gorgoth, looking around. Weynon House was typical for the accommodation of monks; simple and basic. Not where the Orc had expected to find the Grandmaster of the Emperor's bodyguard, but life was full of surprises.

"He's upstairs. Go ahead." The Prior nodded towards a set of stairs at the back of the house. Gorgoth and Aerin went up, the stairs groaning and creaking under Gorgoth's weight, while making almost no sound when the significantly stealthier Aerin walked up. Jauffre was sitting a desk, reading. His tonsured hair was iron-grey and wrinkles ravaged his face, but Gorgoth could tell from his posture that the Breton was a veteran warrior who could easily see off younger opponents, a clear giveaway to his secret occupation.

"Can I help you?" asked Jauffre, looking up at their approach. He sounded mildly annoyed at their interruption; Gorgoth guessed that seeing the man you were sworn to protect assassinated would cause a lot of pressure.

Gorgoth decided not to waste words and get straight to the point. "The Emperor sent me. He-" Jauffre cut him off.

"The Emperor? He is dead. Why are you really here?" The Breton's eyes had narrowed.

"I was there when he died," replied Gorgoth, unruffled by Jauffre's suspicion; he'd expected it. "As I was saying, with his dying breath, he told me to go and bring you the Amulet of Kings."

The Breton jumped to his feet with agility that belied his age. Aerin was shocked enough to momentarily grope for her sword. "The Amulet of Kings! Where is it? Where-" The Breton eagerly grabbed the Amulet when Gorgoth produced it. He checked it over, a slow smile spreading over his face. "By the Nine. This IS the Amulet of Kings!"

"Very observant," remarked Aerin wryly. Gorgoth shot her a warning look and turned back to Jauffre, who had sat down, the Amulet lain with great care on his desk.

"What were the Emperor's last words? What else did he say to you?" quizzed the monk, leaning forward.

"He said there was another heir, one that you knew about." Jauffre nodded. "He also told me to 'close shut the jaws of Oblivion', and to stop the Prince of Destruction. I'm not entirely sure what he meant by that."

"I am one of the few who know about Uriel's illegitimate child," replied Jauffre, leaning back in his chair. "I was a younger bodyguard in the Blades when he charged me with finding a place for a young baby boy. From time to time, he asked after his progress." Jauffre sighed and rubbed his eyes; looking closer, Gorgoth could see that the Breton had clearly been affected by the last few days; his face was sagging, and he appeared older than he actually was.

"So who is this last heir of Uriel?" asked Gorgoth.

"His name is Martin. He is a priest in the Chapel of Akatosh in Kvatch. Efforts must be made to secure him at all costs; we have to assume that the enemy knows of him."

"The enemy... those assassins can be dealt with easily enough," mused Gorgoth. "But I fail to see what Oblivion or Mehrunes Dagon has to do with this. Nirn is protected from Oblivion by some sort of magical barrier, correct?" The Orc could detect Aerin looking at him curiously; it was likely that she had no clue what he was talking about.

"We suspect that the assassins who killed the entire Royal Family are connected to Mehrunes Dagon somehow," explained Jauffre. "Yes, there are magical barriers in place meaning that Oblivion cannot invade. The Dragonfires in the Temple of the One in the Imperial city have something to do with the maintaining of the strength of this barrier. Now, with no-one of the Septim bloodline wearing the Amulet, these fires are dark for the first time in millennia."

"So the barriers are weakening?" asked Gorgoth. Jauffre nodded. "So maybe the Prince of Destruction could invade..."

"Which is why it's imperative that we find Martin before the enemy does," growled Jauffre, rising again. "No time can be wasted. I can't do much, but I can send you two to find Martin and bring him back here safely."

"Hey, why us?" asked Aerin, apparently put out at being ordered across Cyrodiil without much incentive.

"Because you're here, you know what's happening, and I can use you," muttered Jauffre, walking to the window and looking out with arms folded. "You should leave for Kvatch immediately. Some others in the priory may give you assistance. Good luck."

Understanding a dismissal when he saw one, Gorgoth immediately turned and stomped downstairs, Aerin falling in beside him. The aged Prior immediately got up; he'd clearly been listening. "I know how important speed is right now," he sighed. "If you have need of it, take my horse; I rarely leave the Priory much. I hope she can carry you."

"She'll have to," grunted Gorgoth in reply, throwing open the doors and hurrying over to the stables, clearly not eager to waste any more time than he had to.

The Dunmer lay servant showed Gorgoth to a placid paint horse that looked both slow and old, but it would have to do. She gave him a look of reproach as he hoisted himself up into the saddle. The paint horse, mainly used by a lightweight Breton, was completely inadequate for Gorgoth's purposes – his feet dangled a foot below the stirrups – but it was better than running. Aerin snorted with laughter as she saw the huge Orc delicately guiding the small horse out of the stable. Firebrand attempted to nip her new companion until Aerin reined her in.

Gorgoth was consulting his map. "Looks like we've got a long journey ahead of us," he grunted sourly. "Three days, I'd say. Back almost to the Imperial City, then on the Gold Road through Skingrad."

"Three days?" asked Aerin incredulously, pulling up her hood again. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but a biting north wind had sprung up. "What about going cross country? That's much shorter."

"At the pace I set, we'd break the horses' legs after ten miles," replied Gorgoth, packing up the map and squinting at where he thought the sun was behind the clouds. It was nearing dusk. "You ever ridden for long distances when speed is vital?" he asked.

Aerin shook her head. "I'm a hunter, big guy," she muttered. "I've only ever been short distances on Firebrand."

"No rest for the first night," announced Gorgoth. Aerin groaned. "We have no time; those assassins could be stabbing Martin in the back right now. We ride hard; half an hour at a hard gallop, then half an hour running, holding the reins." He took up his own reins and prepared to set off. Aerin stared long and hard at his back before she realised he was serious.

* * *

It was past midnight when Ilend made it back to the barracks. Savlian Matius had been called up to the castle for a discussion about what to do, bringing Ilend with him. The Count had been in favour of an increased presence on the streets, while Savlian preferred calling in the Imperial Legion to help investigate. As usual, the two stubborn Imperials couldn't find a compromise and nothing was achieved. Ilend sighed and removed his sword belt and helmet, preparing for a long sleep. Divines knew he needed it. He was tugging off his boots when Merandil, the only Altmer in the Kvatch Guard, rushed in, a look of terror on his face.

"Where's the Captain?" he demanded, looking everywhere at once. "Where is he? _Something_ just appeared outside the city gates!"

"Merandil, calm down," soothed Ilend. "Savlian's up at the Castle still. What is it?"

The Altmer guardsman turned his wild-eyed gaze to his superior. "It's a... gate," he muttered. "No ordinary gate," he continued. "It's- come see for yourself!" With that, he was darting out of the door again.

Ilend forced down the feeling of unease and reached for his sword belt. "Jesan, go get the captain," he ordered. The named Imperial nodded and ran off, chainmail clinking. "It might be nothing," Ilend told the rest of the guards in the barracks, most of whom had been rudely awoken. "But after hearing that prisoner, I'm not about to laugh off strange happenings." He grabbed his helmet and forced it onto his head as he ran out of the barracks.

Merandil was hopping from one foot to the other in impatience outside, and took off as soon as Ilend appeared. The Watch Sergeant muttered something about hyperactive Altmer and ran after him.

It was evident that Merandil wasn't overreacting when he and Ilend climbed the city wall and looked out at the gate. It was slightly taller than the town gate itself, columns of obsidian surrounding a sheet of fire, occasionally belching out great billows of flame that almost reached the walls, much to the horror of the archers stationed there. The ground around it was completely scorched, any vegetation long burned up by the fires. Ilend found himself gaping at the swirling maelstrom in front of him. The words of the robed Altmer came to mind: 'You'll get your chance to see Kvatch burn'.

Ilend felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to see Merandil pointing a trembling finger up at the sky. The Imperial looked up, and took a step back. Instead of seeing the stars and the moons, there was simply a dark, pulsating, red-veined fiery blackness for as far as the eye could see. It lit up Kvatch and the surrounding countryside, reflecting off the rocks of the mountain. Looking down into the city, Ilend could see wide-eyed citizens pouring out onto the streets, gazing open-mouthed at the spectacle.

There was a clinking of chainmail, and Savlian arrived, panting, looking at the gate in amazement. "When did this appear?" he asked Merandil.

"About ten minutes ago," whispered Merandil, still looking up at the sky. "I got to the barracks as quick as I could. It's... immense."

"Jesan!" barked Savlian. The Imperial watchman appeared at the captain's shoulder. "Send word to the Count. Ready the guard, and send for the court wizard. I don't like this..." Jesan saluted and ran back down the wall. "What do you think, Ilend? What's happening?"

Ilend simply shook his head. "I have no idea. But I know for sure that I don't like it." The Imperial closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer for deliverance to the Divines. A yell snapped his head round. Merandil was pointing into the city. Following his gaze, Ilend could make out another gate, inside the maze of streets in the eastern part of Kvatch. Savlian cursed.

"Captain! Daedra!" yelled one of the archers on the town gate. Every watchman on the wall rushed to the edge and looked down. As reported, daedra were swarming out of the gate, their intention perfectly clear; they were attacking. The gate, or portal, or whatever it was, had opened some way off the road into the city, but the various creatures were closing fast.

"Open fire, you bloody idiots!" yelled Savlian, and the archers responded. The guard captain beckoned to Ilend and stared descending the stairs leading back to the city. Screams from the east indicated that Daedra were pouring out of that gate as well.

"What do we do, captain?" asked a nearby guard when Savlian had reached the ground. The guard looked nervous, some with swords drawn, others fingering bows.

Savlian's face was set in a grim mask as his sword rattled out of its scabbard. "You all swore to protect this city and its citizens," he growled, looking around. "Time to fulfil those oaths."

* * *

**As usual, reviews will be appreciated. I'll try to get another chapter up before I head off to Cornwall for a week next Saturday, but I can make no promises.**


	9. Blood and Fire

**A/N: OK, this is my final upload before I head off to Cornwall for a week. I'll be back on the 28th or thereabouts, but, for now, this is what you've got. And, thanks for anyone who reviewed, including:**

**Underpaid Critic: I guess it might seem like Aerin's eating more than Gorgoth, but I think that's only because attention is drawn to her lack of eating due to exhaustion; Gorgoth is in fact eating a lot more than her, it just isn't actually mentioned. And, yes, Gorgoth might seem a bit too powerful, and that's because he is: I'd say he's got enough magicka to worry a Telvanni master wizard. However, due to his crusade to compeltely eradicate his own weaknesses, I think he'd be expected to be fairly powerful, particularly as he pays the price by being devoid of any visible form of personality. And, don't worry; there is no chance whatsoever of a Gorgoth/Aerin romance, or a Gorgoth/anyone romance for that matter; he wasn't lying when he said he suppressed all feelings of love. Besides, I'm truly crap at writing romance.  
**

**More reviews always appreciated. Read on.**

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Blood and Fire**

It was early morning in Kvatch. Normally, Masser and Secunda would still be visible; the veil of stars would be dotting the night sky. There would be a hint of grey predawn to the east, and morning dew would be wet on the grass. Instead, the sky was an angry, boiling cauldron of red and black blocking the stars and moons. Oblivion Gates dotted the city, daedra pouring out of them, laying waste to the once-beautiful mountaintop city. Screams of the terrified and the wounded mixed with the angry roars and battle cries of the daedra as they killed indiscriminately.

"There's too many gates, Savlian," reported Jesan Rilian, being used as a runner by the Kvatch Guard. "We can't mount an effective defence; they'll just open another gate behind our battle line."

Savlian grunted. Jesan was right. The power and numbers of the daedra were overwhelming. The Kvatch Guard had resisted the best they could, but had been pushed back into three pockets of resistance; the castle, the main plaza just inside the main gate, and the Kvatch Arena, where the gladiators had provided valuable assistance. It wasn't just the gladiators; every man capable of wielding a weapon with some skill had helped the Kvatch Guard in the brutal fighting, where blood was shed for every street. There were humans fighting for the daedra, as well; there were reports of the red-robed agents fighting alongside their immortal allies, using bound armour and weapons.

The guard captain turned to the remaining sergeants in his party, which held the main plaza, the open space and the nearby wall making the area excellent for archers, giving them a clear view of the enemy, who would have no cover. The daedra had yet to break through the main gate from their single portal outside the walls, but it was only a matter of time. "Ilend, Menien, take your squads and round up as many civilians as you can." The two sergeants nodded and called their squads to them. "We need to hold this gate for as long as we can; we've got to do all we can to save as many as possible. Go."

Ilend checked that his shield was still firmly strapped to his arm – a lucky slash from a Dremora had torn through half the bindings earlier – and led his squad of five guardsmen down a narrow street. He instructed each of them to go from house to house and get any civilians moving towards the gate; then, it would be up to the guards holding the gate and the road gate to help them get down the mountain to safety. Ilend himself remained in the street as his men hustled civilians out of their homes, all the while on the lookout for daedra. They had all seen friends and comrades mercilessly hewn down by the enemy; the daedra were pitiless killing machines.

"Street's clear, Ilend," reported Varus Amatius, an Imperial archer. His quiver had long since been emptied, and dried blood coating half his face marked the area where a Clanfear had slashed his cheek open, before the wound had been healed by the last surviving battlemage. "There's a gate two streets down. I saw-" What the Imperial had to say was lost in a massive roar that seemed to shake the very mountain. A light from behind Ilend lit up the entire city. Fearful of what he was about to comprehend, Ilend turned.

Part of the north city wall had collapsed, and in its place was a truly enormous gate. It easily dwarfed the smaller gates that now pockmarked the city, being at least twice as wide and substantially taller. Gouts of flame belched from the fiery surface, setting alight the few buildings that had somehow escaped the destruction caused by the earlier gates. Ilend, his squad, and the civilians were all rooted to the spot as an enormous monstrosity emerged from the huge gate. Many obsidian legs propelled a vast body forward into the city, a gaping mouth spitting fireballs the size of houses. Within minutes, the machine was fully inside Kvatch and was laying waste to the city, the Arena standing up to its fireballs for mere seconds before collapsing.

Shaking himself out of his trance, Ilend snapped into action. "Get moving!" he roared, both to his squad and the civilians. "You want that thing to catch up with you? Get out of here!" With his words whipping them on, the citizens and guards of the now destroyed city fled for their lives into the plaza.

Rudimentary barricades had been erected to keep the daedra out of the plaza, or at least delay them while the archers shot them down. The chapel was easily visible, casting long shadows over the battleground. A path down the mountain to safety was held by a combination of archer fire from the walls and guards protecting the road from the single gate that had opened outside the city. Civilians were rushing out of the open city gates, taking terrified glances behind them as they fled their city. So far, none of the guards had deserted their posts; something to make the Kvatch Guard proud of on this otherwise horrific night.

"Kvatch is lost!" Savlian was bellowing, though the words seemed to rip the very life out of him. "Civilians, get out while you can! Guardsmen, hold firm! Everyone to the barricades!"

Ilend made his way over to the captain, waving for his men to join the rest in the defensive positions. Sheer adrenaline, terror, and some anger was overriding the Imperial's exhaustion. He removed his helmet and laid it on the table that formed part of a barricade. "How long do you think we can hold out?" he wearily asked his superior.

Savlian took one glance at the massive daedric machine. "If that thing comes over here, we won't last five seconds," he spat. "We hold until they break through. There has to be some of us left to defend the civilians. We're lucky that there's only one path down the mountain; we can guard that easily enough, it's a natural choke point."

Ilend sighed. "They'd have the height advantage," he observed. "Never a good thing."

"I didn't choose this battle, Ilend," snarled Savlian, his gauntleted fist smashing down onto the barricade.

"None of us did," agreed the Watch Sergeant, rubbing his eyes. Yells from a street entrance indicated a fresh daedric attack. Ilend's head whipped round, and, despite his fatigue, was immediately off to find the thick of it. Savlian yelled after him, something about forgetting his helmet, but Ilend didn't hear him.

The Imperial drew his silver longsword, which, like every other sword in the city, was stained with the blood of daedra. His wolfshead-embossed shield was pitted with scars, and his heavy chainmail had endured more blows in a few hours than it had in his lifetime. Nevertheless, Ilend reached the barricade and threw himself over it, smashing a scamp over the head with his shield in the same motion. A Dremora snarled and swung at him. Ilend ducked into a graceful forward roll and came out of it with his blade embedded in a Clanfear's stomach. The Imperial looked up to find himself surrounded by daedra; he'd got too far from the barricade.

"Why can't you bastards go home and leave us alone?" he snarled to the warily circling daedra, each poised to land a killing blow.

A Dremora growled a response in a harsh language that Ilend didn't recognise and moved in, swinging his claymore. Ilend blocked the slash and kicked the Dremora's legs from under him, quickly following him down and stabbing him through the throat. The Imperial recovered in time to duck under a lunge from a daedroth. Another dremora darted in and aimed his mace at Ilend's head, but was stopped short by the arrow penetrating the back of his breastplate. Ilend barged a scamp out of the way and threw himself back over the barricade, turning in time to cut down a Seducer that had attempted to follow him over.

"You're mad, Ilend," observed Merandil, his voice flat as his arrow took a daedroth in the stomach. The massive crocodile-headed monstrosity shrugged it off, then charged straight into a halberd. "Very clever, that, charging into their attack without thinking."

"Broke up their attack enough, didn't it?" responded Ilend, blocking a mad swipe from a Clanfear and gutting the beast. A Dremora jumped over the barricade, daedric plate and all. Ilend moved at attack, aiming low. The Dremora blocked it with his own sword, only for Ilend to close in and push him back onto the barricade using his shield. The Imperial locked swords with the crimson-skinned daedra long enough for a nearby guard to dart in and thrust a spear into the Dremora's armpit. Ilend was already turning away, seeking his next victim.

No use; the daedra were attacking in overwhelming numbers, shattering barricades held around the plaza. Everywhere, the guard was falling back, letting the daedra get into the plaza where they would have no cover from the archers on the wall. Their fire was withering, but not enough to stop the daedric tide. Ilend was grabbed by a daedroth, who roared in his face; the Imperial was almost overpowered by the foul stench of the creature's breath. Fighting unconsciousness, he managed to get his sword up and ram it down the creature's throat. There was a gurgling sound, and Ilend's sword disappeared down into the daedroth so quickly that he was left grasping empty air, but it worked; the daedroth dropped him as it flailed around, clutching its throat.

Ilend spotted a fallen Guardsman nearby and rolled over to him, coming up with his fallen comrade's sword in his hands. Savlian was ordering the guardsmen back to hold a line near the main gate, while keeping some of the streets open to get the most civilians away. Ilend joined the mass retreat of the surviving guards, some of whom were running backwards, loosing arrows into the swarming mass. The last surviving battlemage in the city, apart from the court wizard in the castle, drank down his last potion and unleashed tamed lightning from his hands. At every strike, daedra were thrown through their air, bodies burning, like a giant tossing twigs. However, the battlemage couldn't keep it up for long; his magicka pool was fast depleting.

The open gate was inviting, but Ilend turned and stood his ground with the ragged remains of the Kvatch Guard. The daedric horde, gaps blown in its ranks by the battlemage, arrows scything through the lighter daedra, fell apon them. Ilend briefly noticed the battlemage sending off a final lightning bolt, then joining the ranks with a bound claymore, but then he had to focus on his own battle; a warhammer-wielding Dremora was bearing down on him, bellowing what Ilend assumed to be curses. "Come on, then, you fucker," growled the Imperial, beckoning to his adversary.

Blocking the swinging warhammer would probably result in the shattering of Ilend's arm as well as his shield, so he ducked under the blow and put his entire strength into a thrust at the Dremora's midsection. His opponent, overbalanced by the swing, couldn't dodge and was powerless to respond when Ilend's blade, propelled by sheer force, managed to punch through his daedric plate and penetrate his stomach. The Imperial withdrew his blade, decapitated the stumbling Dremora, and pushing the falling body onto a nearby scamp. A Seducer rushed forward, flinging one of her deadly debilitating spells; Ilend was lucky to dodge it, and his swing in reply was weak; the daedra parried it easily and sliced at his sword arm. The Imperial smashed his shield into her face and kicked her back into a daedroth, who flung her aside in its eagerness to eat Merandil.

Another Dremora leapt into the fray, claymore slicing through the armour of the guardsman next to Ilend as though it was paper. Growling a curse, Ilend turned to aim a slash at the Dremora's face, but the daedra swung his claymore up to block and darted around to Ilend's rear, putting the Imperial in an unfortunate position, with enemies to his front and back. He was saved by the archers on the wall when two arrows pierced the Dremora's back. Ilend was turning back to the main horde before he had finished falling.

A huge frost atronach, multiple arrows cracking its surface, headed straight for Ilend. The Imperial blocked its swing and felt his entire arm go numb; his counterattack merely chipped the ice on the leviathan. It shrugged off his attack and swung again, this blow strong enough to dent Ilend's shield and send him sprawling. Ilend roared in defiance at the daedra towering above him and put his entire magicka pool into sending a fireball at the atronach. The massive tower of ice stumbled back as the fireball impacted on its chest. Ilend was up within seconds, thrusting his sword into the weakened ice. The atronach moaned and fell, shattering into countless pieces apon hitting the ground.

The daedric attack appeared to be thinning. Every kind of daedra was still throwing itself at the Guard's battle line, but their numbers were depleted, the archers keeping up a withering fire. Ilend sliced a scamp's chest open and found himself with no-one else to fight, so he turned and helped Merandil finish off a crippled Clanfear. The daedra weren't retreating; they were simply dying in their dozens. Piles of bodies of daedra, men and mer littered the plaza. The daedra might not have broken the battle line, but they had broken the strength of the guardsmen; the numbers of the daedra were limitless, whereas Ilend could only count about thirty bedraggled, bloodied survivors.

"This isn't what I signed up for," groaned Menien, falling to his knees, blood streaking his face.

"I don't think any of us signed up for this, Menien," replied Ilend, surveying the devastation of the city he had been proud to call his home. In the distance, the massive daedric siege engine was crawling back into its gate. Its work had been done; half of Kvatch seemed to be ablaze.

The battlemage was dead, and, out of the remaining guards, Ilend probably had the best magical ability, which was not only virtually useless, but would take some time to recharge after his fireball. The wounded would have to fend for themselves. There seemed to be few civilians left in the city; the exodus out of the gate had slowed to a trickle, and the handful that had armed themselves and stood with the Guard were advised to get out while they could. Few needed encouraging.

Ilend found himself staring at the statute of Antus Pinder, just visible in the distance, surrounded by smoke and flames, miraculously untouched. The statute of the leader of the defence of the city against the Camoran Usurper two centuries ago had been built to remind the people of his courage in the face of hopeless odds. Ilend found himself wondering if this was what Antus had felt; exhausted and despairing, knowing that there was no hope.

More daedra appeared; despite their losses, there seemed to be endless waves of them. Savlian knew when fighting on was hopeless and sounded a retreat. None of the guards had to be told twice. They turned and ran for their lives. There was no shame in their retreat; each and every single guard knew that they had done their best, and each and every single guard had to swallow the bitter pill and admit the truth; their best hadn't been good enough.

The guardsmen outside the gate had already started to erect barricades and stakes pointing towards the city. Ilend was shocked to see that the portal to Oblivion that had opened outside the city was now nothing more than a charred blot on the landscape. None of the guards outside knew what had happened; it had just suddenly closed for no apparent reason.

Savlian was assembling the entire guard to him for a debriefing, or, at least, for what could pass as a debriefing considering the circumstances. "The civilians are making their way down the mountain. You know what that means; we have to hold this path at all costs, or they'll be run down." The guard captain's voice was grim, and the blood splattered across his face made him look a tad gruesome. "You know what to do. You've all done yourselves proud today; keep it up for just a bit longer; the Legion will be here soon."

"What about the people still in Kvatch?" asked Menien Goneld.

"Apparently, there are still pockets of resistance in the castle and chapel," replied Savlian. "We don't have the manpower to mount a full-scale rescue; they'll have to fend for themselves. Besides-"

Savlian was cut off by another Oblivion Gate opening behind him. The entire Guard stepped back, gritting their teeth at the thought of more daedra pouring out of this inferno, which completely blocked the path into the city. Now there really was no way out of Kvatch.

* * *

Gorgoth and Aerin rode through the night after leaving Weynon Priory, then through the next day and most of the night, only stopping mid-ride for Gorgoth to remove the fatigue of the horses. When they finally stopped for the night, having made it halfway from the Imperial City to Skingrad, Aerin flopped down against a nearby tree and immediately fell asleep, not even bothering to eat or drink.

Gorgoth was already up at dawn, putting on his armour. He'd managed to hunt down and shoot a deer the previous night, meaning that at the very least they had some meat to keep them going. While the basic venison was nothing compared to what he'd had in the Feed Bag, in enough quantities it was at least enough to give the massive Orc the necessary energy. He kicked dirt over the ashes of the fire and looked down at Aerin. The Bosmer looked wrung out like a wet rag, strands of hair falling all over her face, which, like her entire body, was glistening with sweat. Evidently, she'd never been driven this hard in her life. Gorgoth snorted and prodded her with his foot. When that didn't work he kicked her gently in the ribs. Still not getting a response, he knelt and gave her a powerful slap round the face. That finally succeeded in getting a reaction.

"Can't ya do what ya did with the horses, big guy?" she muttered, sitting up and rubbing her cheek. "I sure could use some of this exhaustion wiped away." Attempting to stand, she swayed and sat back down heavily.

Gorgoth sighed. "You haven't eaten in two days. Do you really expect to keep up this pace without eating?" he growled. He shoved some cold venison into her hands. "There's a spring behind that bush if you need water."

The Bosmer tore into the meat like a starving wolf. Gorgoth went to check the horses, making sure that Prior Maborel's horse hadn't suffered excessive strain anywhere. He was aware that, if not for his magic, his horse would be dead by now, and Firebrand not much better off. Aerin staggered back from the stream, hair dripping, looking more dead than alive.

Gorgoth sighed once again and grabbed her head with both hands. Blue healing magic lit up her body, and instantly her eyes looked less bleary. She looked up at him in wonder as he grunted in satisfaction and withdrew his hands. "Hey, you could have done that a few days back when I was just as tired, ya know," she muttered, folding her arms and hoping her disapproving look would have an effect. It didn't.

"Exhaustion is character-building," the Orc simply grunted in reply. "Come on, let's move."

Aerin held up a hand. "Whoa there, big guy. I need a dump first."

Gorgoth nodded his head towards the bushes as though he'd been expecting it. "There's a good bush for your purposes over there," he told her. "I used it twenty minutes ago. Be careful not to tread in what I left there."

The Bosmer wrinkled her nose in distaste, but stalked off to the bush he'd indicated, carefully avoiding the huge mound of Orc shit that Gorgoth had so thoughtfully placed there. The warrior-shaman went back to checking his map. He estimated that they were about halfway along the Gold Road to Skingrad. Satisfied, he put his map away and was buckling his weapon belt when he heard Aerin yell.

"Gorgoth! Goblin! Er... help!" Gorgoth looked for her weapons and found Trueshot and her shortswords both lying against the tree she'd slept against. He growled and rushed off to the bushes.

There was indeed an inquisitive goblin, with club drawn, drawing closer to the hapless Bosmer, who had her pants around her ankles and was clearly in no position to run. Gorgoth sighed, walked up to the goblin, took its head in his hands in a similar method to what he'd done with Aerin earlier, and twisted, snapping the creature's neck. It spasmed out of his loosening grip and fell in an undignified heap right on top of Gorgoth's faeces.

"Er... much obliged, big guy," muttered Aerin. "Now do ya mind, er... giving me five minutes?"

Gorgoth simply snorted and walked back to the campsite, muttering about headstrong Bosmeri who didn't bring weapons with them when doing a dump in the wilderness. He checked that his own mace was firmly in place on his belt and leant against a tree, folding his arms, settling down to wait. After a few minutes, a slightly embarrassed Aerin reappeared, putting Trueshot on her back and slotting her swords into her belt. Gorgoth was already impatiently waiting on his horse. He'd never learnt the name of the damn thing and he wasn't about to give a name to something barely worthy of being called a horse.

Aerin pulled herself up onto Firebrand's saddle with grace and poise, none of the clumsy dragging that had been commonplace after the earlier stops. While Gorgoth didn't particularly care whether the Bosmer stayed or went, it was good to know that she wouldn't die on him due to exhaustion. An added bonus of their quick pace was that it made conversation near-impossible, allowing Gorgoth a break from her questioning. He dug his heels into his horse's flanks, slowly working her up to a gallop.

They reached Skingrad when the sun was directly overhead, but their only pause was to get through the gates; the city's design meant that it was easy to ride straight through, despite Aerin trying to get Gorgoth to stop and eat some proper food for the first time in days. Gorgoth briefly considered stealing a better horse from the stables, but decided against it; securing the heir to the throne was likely to be complicated if the Imperial Legion was attempting to arrest him.

Stops were short and infrequent, barely giving Gorgoth enough time to ease the horse's fatigue and get some more water before setting off again, alternating galloping with long-distance running. Aerin had even stopped complaining. Maybe she knew by now that it was pointless.

By the time Gorgoth called a halt for the night, both horses were looking distinctly unhealthy. Gorgoth could remove exhaustion easily enough, but the horse's bodies simply weren't used to standing up to this kind of punishment; they'd have to be rested for several days afterwards. Aerin, less tired than usual, managed to actually eat and drink before falling asleep with her head rolling onto Gorgoth's shoulder. The Orc hoped his snoring wouldn't deprive her of sleep; she needed it more than he did.

* * *

Ilend had grown used to the sky's rolling, ominous clouds of red and black. It had destroyed his sense of time, but he felt that it was some time about dawn. The Guard had slept in shifts, with at least half the guardsmen awake at any one time, watching the Oblivion Gate, which periodically belched a few daedra to probe the Guard's defences. From what he could see, the gates inside the city had, for some reason, been closed. Savlian had discussed this in length with his sergeants, but, in the end, nothing had been deduced by the daedra's behaviour. At least it wasn't a full-scale invasion of Tamriel.

Most of the civilians had set up a temporary encampment at the foot of the mountain. Savlian had made sure they camped far enough away to give them a chance if the daedra broke through the Guard. For now, everyone seemed to be content to wait for something to happen, whatever that might be.

Everyone, that is, except Savlian Matius. At the moment, the guard captain was leaning on the barricade, glaring at the Oblivion Gate as though he could remove it from Nirn with his sheer force of will. He spoke suddenly. "Ilend, I want you and Menien to get the best ten men you can find and take them into that gate."

Ilend looked over towards Menien and beckoned with his head before turning back to his superior. "And do what?" he asked. "Fight them on their home turf? A good way to lose twelve men."

"No," growled Savlian, turning to face his two sergeants. "They closed the gates inside the city, so there must be some way to close them ourselves. I want you two to take a squad and find out how to close this one." He paused, looking at each sergeant in turn. "If we close it, we could get back into Kvatch. Now that they've got no reinforcements, a rescue attempt could be feasible."

Ilend was nodding, though his face was grim. "I see where you're coming from, Savlian," he admitted. "But I don't think any man here would like the prospect of going in there." He waved a gauntleted hand towards the towering inferno that stood before them.

"I would call your plan madness, Savlian," sighed Menien, scratching his tonsured head, which, in days gone by, had earned him a lot of ribbing from his associates. "But, in all honesty, I think we've seen so much madness that a bit more wouldn't hurt."

"Just make sure that the men you pick can endure hell," Savlian told them. "Some might define 'hell' as what we've just been through, but that-" he gestured to the Gate "- that leads to hell, literally."

Menien saluted, fist to heart. "I'll ready the men," he assured, turning and walking over to the barricades where the most guards were cloistered. He was one of the oldest men in the Guard, but tough as a gnarled old root and one of the most respected men in Kvatch.

Savlian sighed. "I don't like sending good men I've known for years into that unknown," he growled, resuming his glaring at the gate. "I just hope it works. If not..." he left the consequences unspoken. They both knew that if they failed, the survivors of Kvatch still in the city were doomed.

"How long until the Legion gets here?" asked Ilend. With the might of the Imperial Legion backing them up, it would be possible for the Guard to swarm that Gate and retake Kvatch.

"I sent Varus and Frederic to Anvil and Skingrad," replied Savlian, still glaring at the gate. A lone scamp ran out and was promptly struck down by two arrows. "Hopefully, help should be here within days."

Ilend sighed. "I hope you're right, Savlian," he muttered, pushing himself away from the barricade and heading over to the squad that Menien had assembled. Ilend knew each of the ten men by name; he'd served alongside some of them for as long as he could remember. Now he'd probably get the opportunity to see them cut down before his eyes. It was a sobering thought, but he forced it from his mind and focused on the task at hand. Menien had already briefed them and made sure every man knew what was expected of him, but, in the end, every single one of them knew that this was a shot in the dark, a grasp at a short straw. They had no idea what lay before them once they stepped through that gate.

Menien drew his sword, an action imitated by the entire squad, apart from two who swung battleaxes off their backs. "It's not the best job in the world, but someone has to do it," said Savlian, the guard captain joining them. "You men should be proud of yourselves, all of you." An inspirational tone entered the captain's voice. "You held back the hordes of Oblivion long enough to keep Kvatch alive. You all fought on when all hope was lost. And now, despite seeing your friends and family hewn down before your eyes, you're going into the lion's mouth and spitting in the Daedra's face." The Imperial looked around, pausing to stare into every face. "Whatever the outcome of this battle, I'm proud to have served alongside you, soldiers of Kvatch."

Everyone in the squad saluted vigorously, gauntlets clanging against breastplates. The captain's words had heartened them; as well as being a good soldier, Savlian could be inspirational when needed. "Come on, people, let's go kick some daedric arse!" roared Menien, leading the charge into the Oblivion Gate. "Don't let an old man beat you to the first kill!" His enthusiasm gripped the squad and they too roared as they plunged headfirst into the gate, Ilend bringing up the rear. It was as though he had suddenly been bathed in fire; a burning sensation washed over him, his skin feeling ready to burst from the heat. The Imperial's chest contracted; the sheer heat seared the very air in his lungs. He gasped for air, but there was none to breathe. Abruptly, he was through, joining the rest of the squad in catching their breath.

The first thing Ilend noticed was their air itself. His lungs were still recovering from the searing heat of the gateway, but the air here was hotter than that of Nirn, far hotter, with a hint of sulphur burning his nose and windpipe. Looking around him, his eyes widened. He'd never before put a specific image to Oblivion, but if he'd had to imagine it, his guess would have been pretty close to this. The sky was the same he'd witness over Kvatch, but the boiling cauldron of swirling clouds seemed even angrier somehow. Ilend could only describe the land as a scorched, parched wasteland, an island in the middle of a boiling sea of lava. Pools of lava and rocky ridges dotted the landscape. Traces of architecture were evident; most prominent was the massive obsidian tower in the distance and the bridge leading to it, hewn from a kind of stone.

Footsteps crunched on the hard-packed earth as the Guard spread out, their combat training not forgotten. In seconds, the two scamps who had been idly wandering nearby had been dispatched. A Clanfear spotted them and tried to run, but was cut down by the three archers. Ilend walked over to join Menien, who was stood on a small rock, surveying the terrain. A few daedra dotted the landscape, but Ilend suspected that their true strength was hidden.

"What do you think, Menien?" he asked.

"If there's any way to close that bloody gate, it's probably in that tower," remarked Menien, gesturing towards the mentioned pillar of obsidian. "Looks like that bridge offers the fastest way of getting there, and, frankly, the sooner we get out of here, the better."

"Couldn't agree more, Menien," concurred Ilend as he wiped a small stain of dried blood off his blade. "I'll cover the rear. Let's not waste time, you said it yourself; the sooner we leave, the better." Menien nodded in agreement and hopped down from the rock, motioning for the squad to follow him. Ilend took up the rear, eyes watching for anything that moved, including the plant life, which seemed as hostile as anything in this forsaken place.

As they walked onto the bridge, Ilend couldn't help feeling worried. Two gates were at either end of the bridge; if they closed, the guardsmen would be trapped and easy to pick off. He couldn't see any visible closing mechanism, but this was Oblivion. Anything was possible. The heat from the lava was intense enough to keep everyone near the centre of the bridge. Ilend's shield slipped free from the damaged bindings on his arm, and he cursed as he barely caught it. He looked up to see the squad moving on without him, and quickly repaired the damage the best he could. The bindings would have to be properly repaired later, but they would hold for now. Hopefully.

Ilend looked up to see the rest of the squad over halfway across the bridge, and started hurrying to catch up. At that moment, a groaning, clanking sound halted him and his compatriots in their tracks. With a horrendous grinding sound, both bridge gates began to close.

"Move, you bloody idiots!" roared Menien. "Get across before they trap us here!" Ilend darted forward, then realised that the rest of the squad barely had any chance of getting to the other side, let alone him. Instead, he turned and sprinted back the way he had came, towards the Oblivion Gate, past the bridge gate as it closed behind him. A flame atronach appeared from nowhere in front of him, and he simultaneously stabbed it in the chest while throwing his shield arm over his face to protect from the searing heat. Ilend withdrew his blade to find it miraculously undamaged as the atronach collapsed, its flame extinguishing.

The gates on the far end of the bridge slammed shut. The only one to have made it through was Menien; the rest of the squad hammered fruitlessly on the black metal, while others looked out for the ambush that was surely coming. Ilend quickly checked his surroundings for enemies and, seeing none, ran over to the gate and tried to figure out a way to open it. The mechanisms must run underground, or the gate was operated magically. Either way, Ilend's wonderings were as fruitless as the hammerings of his comrades on the far gate.

Dremora archers and mages appeared on the rocky ridges on the far side of the bridge. Ilend could only snarl in frustration as the helpless guardsmen, without cover and with only two bows with which to reply, were mercilessly picked off. Ilend caught sight of Menien on the far side, heroically fighting off four dremora at once before a mace smashed into his head. At that distance, Ilend couldn't see whether he was unconscious or dead, but in this hellish realm it probably didn't make any difference. With the screams of his dying comrades filling his ears, Ilend forced himself to turn and run.

He didn't head for the Gate and safety. He wasn't about to walk out of there and crush the hope of the remaining Guard. No, he was about to go find some daedra and kick them in the teeth for what they'd done. The Imperial could almost feel his blood boiling, not from the heat of the lava, but from his own rage. He tightened his grip on his sword's hilt and started off down a path, a look of grim intensity filling his eyes.

His revenge didn't go unquenched for long. A daedroth roared as it spotted him, before pawing the ground and charging him like an angry bull. Ilend held his ground until the last second, before rapidly sidestepping and slashing it's leg as the crocodile-headed daedra charged straight past him. It growled and turned towards the impudent human who had dared mock it.

"Come on, then, you bastard!" shouted Ilend. The daedroth continued to circle him warily, its wound dripping acidic blood onto the cracked clay. "Not so brave now, are ya?" Ilend shook his sword at the creature. "Come on, you can't even take a measly human on your home turf? Come get me!" It tried, lunging forward once again. Ilend stepped back and slashed it across the chest. The daedroth howled in pain and spat a fireball at the Imperial. Ilend ducked under it and sliced off the foul thing's lower jaw before finishing it with a thrust to the heart.

"Not so big now, are you, filth?" growled Ilend to his fallen enemy as he wiped his sword on some nearby grass. The blood of some daedra was so acidic that it could etch the blade.

A chattering reached the Imperial's ears, and he spun in time to block a scamp's fireball. The steel of his shield resisted the heat of the fireball admirably; Ilend only felt a small trace of the extreme heat in his shield arm. Another scamp barged into the Imperial, who stepped back and stuck out a foot, tripping the scamp as yet another one tried its luck. Ilend smoothly dodged its attack and decapitated it. The scamp who'd thrown the initial fireball rushed at him and impaled itself on the silver longsword. Ilend pushed the stinking brown creature off with his foot and punched the one he'd tripped in the ribs, sending it back down to the ground. He planted his foot on its chest and disembowelled it. The Imperial smoothly knelt and plucked some more grass with which to clean his blade.

Keeping his sword drawn, Ilend pressed on down the path. Two Dremora noticed him and drew their maces, growling curses in their own harsh language. The one in front attacked, putting his entire body into the swing. Ilend, not wanting to get in the way of a powerful mace swing, shield or no shield, threw himself to the ground, tripping the Dremora as he overbalanced. The Imperial scrambled to his feet and trod on the Dremora's mace hand as he swung to parry the attack of the second. Below him, the fallen Dremora growled and kicked at Ilend, but the Imperial had already moved, sidestepping away.

Before the grounded Dremora had a chance to haul himself to his feet, Ilend barged his comrade out of the way and swung at the Dremora, who was just rising. Ilend's blade sliced his face cleanly in two, and the Dremora fell back, acidic blood spurting out of the wound. The other Dremora roared in anger and launched himself at Ilend, tackling him to the ground and successfully separating him from his sword. The Imperial smashed his fist into the daedra's windpipe, brutally crushing it. He kicked his enemy off him, fetched his sword, and put him out of his misery.

Ilend sheathed his sword and grimaced at the pain in his back. The heavily armoured Dremora had landed on top of him; no doubt he'd feel the bruises next morning, assuming that he'd actually see another morning. Maybe it was morning; he'd lost track of all time completely since the attack. All he knew was that he was exhausted, but he wouldn't contemplate the thought of rest. Not until he'd somehow closed this Oblivion Gate and avenged Menien and the others.

The only thing was, he hadn't a clue as to how to go about closing the gate, and knew that without help, his chances of actually making an impact were slim. The Imperial sat down with his back to a nearby rock, leaning his head back against it as he tried to focus his tired mind. He had to think.

* * *

Gorgoth called a halt. He'd insisted that they ride through the night, due to an unexplained sense of urgency that had gripped him. When Aerin had inevitably complained, he had told her to take the alternative of fatigue-reducing magics or get left behind. The two mer dismounted and Gorgoth placed a hand on each horse's head in turn, washing away their fatigue. When Aerin stepped forward with a determined expression, he sighed and did the same for her, grabbing her head a bit more roughly than he'd done with the horses.

"How much longer, big guy?" asked Aerin as she stepped back from him, the cool blue healing magic fading from her body.

Gorgoth consulted his map. "We should be there by dawn," he muttered, glancing up at the sky. A grey hint of predawn was visible to the east. "It's not too far. Kvatch is on a mountain, if I'm reading this map right. We'll be knocking on the city gate soon after the sun's risen, if I'm right."

"Let's hope you're right," sighed Aerin, gathering Firebrand's reins so they could all be held safely in one fist. "I'm getting bored and tired of this constant running and riding. When are we gonna see some action?"

Gorgoth put his map away and shot her a flat look. "I'm hoping there won't _be_ any action," he rumbled, gathering his horse's own reins. "We've got to get Martin to safety. The less action in that, the better." Aerin sighed and rolled her eyes. Gorgoth simply snorted and started off.

The Orc wasn't running at full speed along the road; he'd had to constantly pace himself to match Aerin's speed, and the Bosmer's legs were far shorter than his. Fortunately, unlike many of his race, Gorgoth had infinite patience; Aerin might be annoying, but he felt that it would be better to have someone backing him up on this important quest. At the very least, she'd be another pair of eyes to alert him to dangers. Besides, she wasn't slowing him down by much.

Half an hour later, Gorgoth called another halt. Aerin immediately sagged, hands on knees, panting hard, just like she had after every period of running so far. He didn't doubt that she was fit; she was just obviously not built for long distances. The Orc rummaged around in his saddlebags until he found the last of the venison. He ripped a hunk of the cold meat off the bone and thrust it in Aerin's direction.

"That's all that's left?" she asked, taking her piece and staring at the remaining meat still on the bone. "Damn, you eat fast, big guy. You killed that deer, what, two days ago?"

"I need this more than you," was Gorgoth's grunted reply as his large lower canines ripped a hunk of meat off the bone. Large, strong, and reaching to above his upper lip, the Orc's lower canines were perfectly suited to the task. Aerin shrugged and checked Firebrand's saddle as she ate. Gorgoth wandered over to the side of the road to take a piss in the bushes, still chewing the venison.

"How old are you?" asked Gorgoth abruptly, having returned from his call of nature and finished off the venison. It was logical that he should ask a few questions about his companion at some point; after all, he had answered hundreds of her questions. Most of his answers, admittedly, had been grunts, but he still felt entitled to know more about his companion.

Aerin paused in the act of picking leaves out of Firebrand's mane. "Nineteen," she replied, raising a curious eyebrow.

Gorgoth grunted. "Very young," he muttered, removing the useless stirrups from his horse. After countless attempts to modify them so that he could actually use them, he had given up. "Your parents still alive?"

"My mother died when I was a kid," sighed Aerin, leaning back against Firebrand, folding her arms, and looking up at the Orc with an unreadable expression. "My father's a merchant. He travels a lot on business. I was born in Valenwood but spent most of my life in Cyrodiil." Aerin looked up at the swiftly lightening sky. "I cut loose when I was sixteen," she continued. "Got too boring for someone like me, ya know? He's still travelling for all I know." The Bosmer looked back at Gorgoth. "Why so curious suddenly?"

"Do I need a reason?" growled Gorgoth. "You asked me hundreds of questions, I've asked you two. Seems a bit one-sided to me." He shook his head and mounted his horse, Aerin hastily leaping up into Firebrand's saddle. "I just like to know who I'm working with, however short our journey might be."

"Another of your ways of decreasing vulnerabilities?" snorted Aerin.

"Yes. If you don't know your companions, then you can't be sure they won't stick a knife in your back. Let's ride." Gorgoth heeled his horse up to speed, and Aerin followed, an exasperated expression on her face.

As the sun's rays kissed the horizon, Gorgoth suddenly reined in hard. His untrained horse reared, and the massive warrior-shaman was forced to grab its neck in order to stay in the saddle. Aerin would have laughed at the ludicrous sight if she hadn't been staring so hard at the Altmer Gorgoth had nearly trampled. He had a look of pure terror in his face, and the Bosmer suspected that it wasn't from being nearly run over by an Orc on a galloping paint horse. Her shock increased when he abruptly grabbed Firebrand's reins and attempted to pull her closer to him.

"Run! You've got to run while there's still time!" he was babbling, almost incomprehensively. "The Guard can't hold the road forever, we've got to get out of here while there's still time!" Firebrand snorted derisively at the panicked Altmer. Aerin was about to respond when Gorgoth leapt off his horse and grabbed the High Elf roughly by his collar.

"What in Oblivion are you babbling about?" he rumbled, in the same tone of voice he always used. "Find your senses and speak properly, man!" He shook the Altmer once, then released him. "Why should we run?"

Gorgoth's rough treatment seemed to at least reduce the man's incoherence. "Kvatch has been overrun with Daedra!" he yelled. Gorgoth showed no reaction to the news, but Aerin gasped and strained her eyes, looking up the mountain to where Kvatch was located. It was hidden by the forest canopy. "There were glowing portals inside the walls!" continued the Altmer, attempting to grab Gorgoth but failing to find a purchase on his armour, fingers flailing uselessly until Gorgoth pushed him away. "Gates to Oblivion itself!"

"Calm yourself," growled Gorgoth. "Is the city completely destroyed?"

"Go and see for yourself! Kvatch is a smoking ruin! We're all that's left!" The Altmer, nearing hysterics, waved his arm up the road, indicating where he had come from. "The daedra will be here any minute now! Run, save yourselves while you still can!" His final remark still hanging in the air, the Altmer took off running again. Aerin started to call him back, then closed her mouth and turned Firebrand towards Kvatch. Gorgoth had remounted his horse and was moving forward, his expression grim. Aerin wordlessly followed. They both knew the implications; if the city was destroyed, and Martin dead in its ruins, then all hope was lost.

"Prepare for the worst, and all your surprises will be pleasant ones," muttered Gorgoth sagely.

Aerin started to reply, but the words died in her throat when the forest thinned out and they entered the bare ground at the foot of the mountain.

Gorgoth had seen refugee camps before, and one thing they all had in common was a sense of despair and hopelessness. This one was no different. People from every race and every walk of life were wandering around aimlessly, not even looking up to investigate the new arrivals. They looked shattered, defeated. A handful of tents were erected in no particular order; several people were sorting through what pitiful possessions they had managed to carry away from whatever disaster had befallen Kvatch. Gorgoth and Aerin rode slowly through it all, following the road that made its way through the encampment, their eyes drawn to the top of the mountain.

The Altmer had been right; Kvatch was a smoking ruin. Smoke from innumerable fires blotted out the stars, and various pieces of the wall were smashed in and crumbling. Even from down in the encampment, the sensitive noses of both mer could detect the scorched earth and the burning wood. However, their eyes were drawn to more than that; just visible was the top of a fiery portal to Oblivion. Even as they watched, a gout of flame leapt from its surface. As they approached the road leading up the mountain, it was blocked from view by the rocks and the steep slope, but it remained firmly imprinted on their minds.

"So, what now, big guy?" asked Aerin, somewhat nervously. She fingered the arrows in the quiver at her hip and checked that Trueshot's bowstring was operable.

"We find Martin," replied Gorgoth, sounding determined. "If that means going to Oblivion and back, then so be it." Aerin groaned.

"Thought ya might say something like that, big guy," she sighed, taking Trueshot off her back and testing the string by nocking an arrow, a slightly awkward process on horseback.

Gorgoth heeled his horse to a fast trot and followed the meandering road up the mountain. Aerin followed, pausing for a moment to listen to a priest then ignoring him when it became clear that he was simply a pessimist rambling about the defeat. Gorgoth's attention was drawn to the large number of birds over Kvatch; from this distance, even his sharp eyes couldn't identify them; but he knew what they were: carrion eaters, growing fat on the bodies of the dead. They'd undoubtedly have good eating for many days to come.

As they neared the top of the mountain, Aerin's mouth fell open as the sky changed, blocking the rising sun. A swirling maelstrom of red-veined black clouds stretched from horizon to horizon. Gorgoth seemed unfazed, as usual, but Aerin was looking up in open-mouthed astonishment. "Close your mouth before you catch flies," reminded Gorgoth wryly. "Apparently, the portals have an effect on the weather around them. Never thought I'd see it in person."

"Divines help us," murmured Aerin. Gorgoth snorted but said nothing.

The path finally widened out into a road leading straight to the city gates, which were hidden behind the enormous Oblivion Gate. As described by the Altmer, the Kvatch Guard were indeed holding the gate; about fifteen men leant on the barricades, holding themselves ready despite their obvious exhaustion. As the two mer reined in, a weary-looking Imperial turned and stomped over to them.

"Stand back, civilians," he growled, fatigue obvious in his voice. "Get back to the encampment. We'll hold them off..." his voice trailed away as Gorgoth dismounted.

"I wouldn't call myself a civilian, Imperial," rumbled the Orc as he surveyed the carnage with arms folded. "I've got business in that city."

"It seems that a Daedric Prince has decided to interfere with your business, citizen," sighed the captain. "I'm Savlian Matius, captain of the Kvatch Town Guard. What do you want?"

"We're looking for a priest of Akatosh," replied Aerin, who'd tied Firebrand's reins to a barricade and had joined Gorgoth in regarding the Oblivion Gate. "His name is Martin. Do you know where he is?"

Savlian groaned and ran his fingers through his hair, which seemed to be in an accelerated stage of greying. "He's still in the city," he sighed. "That is, if he's still alive. He was last seen shouting for people to get to the chapel. Apparently, the daedra can't touch holy ground."

"Well, we've got to get in there and get him out," growled Gorgoth.

"You might find a small obstruction in your way," muttered Savlian sarcastically, indicating the Oblivion Gate. "I sent in some of my best men to try to close it. They haven't returned. You're welcome to try."

Aerin took an involuntary step back at the thought of entering the Gate. Gorgoth had closed his eyes, apparently deep in thought. His eyes snapped open and he looked up at the fiery, hellish portal. "The Sigil Stone," he rumbled, sounding triumphant. "I've read about the theoretical side of these portals. They're anchored here by the power of a Sigil Stone. Remove that, and the gateway is destroyed." He smashed his fist into his palm. "Now that we know what to do, let's go do it," he growled, jerking his head towards the Gate. Without waiting for a response, he set off past the barricades towards the portal to Oblivion.

Aerin was left uncertain, definitely not wanting to enter Oblivion, but also fearful of being left out. After all, she had wanted action. Growling to herself, she walked away from Savlian, increasing her pace to catch up with Gorgoth, Trueshot grasped in her fist. The Orc had stopped a few metres away from the entrance to Oblivion, and she stepped up beside him, wincing at the searing heat. "You scared, big guy?" she asked, attempting to disguise her own fear.

"I have not felt fear for many years. This gate is not about to change that."

Aerin rolled her eyes. "Figures," she muttered. "We going in or just trying ta beat Dagon by glaring at his door?"

Gorgoth looked down at her and placed a hand on her head. She started to jerk away, then felt the warrior-shaman's magicka descend apon her. He withdrew his hand, and Aerin looked over her body, expecting to find something, but nothing had changed. She looked up at the Orc questionably, to find that he was doing the same thing to himself, pulses of magicka in every colour of the rainbow washing over his body, then fading. "What is this, big guy?" she asked, slightly nervous.

"Something that will help to keep you alive," rumbled Gorgoth. "That cocktail of spells will protect you from physical damage, elemental damage, and you have greater resistances to all forms of magicka. It will last for about ten minutes."

"Wow..," murmured Aerin, looking down at her body again in an attempt to spot a difference. Finding none, she gave the Orc an appreciative look. "Cheers for that, big guy. Makes me feel a tad more confident."

"It would, but be careful not to rely on that spell," grunted Gorgoth. "Putting too much trust in it is yet another weakness." Aerin snorted and rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Come on." The Orc walked through the Oblivion Gate, the heat growing until it threatened to peel his skin from his body. The superheated air seared his lungs, and his entire body felt on fire. Gorgoth bore it all with his usual stoic manner, and within seconds his was breathing the hot air of Oblivion. A second later, Aerin staggered out of the gate, holding her knees and panting. "We're in the Deadlands," observed Gorgoth, looking around him. "The Realm of Mehrunes Dagon. Let's move." He drew his mace and started off into Oblivion, Aerin recovering swiftly and following him, nocking an arrow.

* * *

**A/N: Well, that's the last update you'll get for about two weeks, as it's hard to write when sunning yourself on a Cornish beach. As always, reviews are appreciated.**


	10. Fighting Spirit

**A/N: OK, apon leaving for my holiday two weeks ago, I had 31 reviews... I came back, and I still had 31 reviews despite a lot of hits. If you're going to read this, it's only a few minutes of your life to write a simple review. Anyhow...**

**Underpaid Critic: You can be sure that there'll be quite a few battles in this story before it's end; at the very least, the Battle of Bruma won't be the pokey affair that it was ingame. You mention that Gorgoth, as a spellsword, needs to be using illusion more, but don't mistake 'spellsword' for his generic class in Oblivion ingame. He'd need a custom class at the very least... spellsword is merely his occupation back in Orsinium to make a living. And while we're here, Gorgoth uses every single kind of magic he has at his disposal, even necromancy, when needed, so don't worry about him underusing a school of magic.**

**Anyhow, enough of my blathering.**

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Fighting Spirit**

Ilend swore at the pain in his back. None of the many wounds he'd taken since entering Oblivion were fatal – most of them were bad bruises or gashes – but that didn't stop them hurting. The trail of dead daedra the vengeful guardsman had left in his wake was small consolation. He'd been forced to turn back. Ilend knew that, in his condition, he wasn't about to be able to get into that tower any time soon, not against an entire army of daedra. Every step he took back to the gate tore at him. He knew he was leaving Menien to a horrible fate; he'd seen the Imperial, still alive, being carried along one of the bridges leading from tower to tower earlier. Ilend simply gritted his teeth and refused to think about his comrade.

The Imperial angrily kicked a rock into the lava as he walked past the bridge, averting his eyes from his dead companions, still sprawled on the black rock. They had stood no chance. At least there had been little opposition on his return journey; he'd already killed most of the daedra posted to this section, their bodies rotting in the heat as he walked past. The guardsmen felt lucky that both his sword and shield had survived the numerous encounters; his shield was blackened from blocking fireballs and was deeply pitted from blocking attacks, while his low-quality silver longsword had chips from hacking at daedric plate and tough bone.

Activity near the Oblivion Gate caught Ilend's attention. Fresh daedra had obviously found an alternate way to the gate, but they were being killed with apparent ease by two figures who most certainly weren't daedra. Ilend closed his eyes and pinched himself to check if he had succumbed to exhaustion and was dreaming. When he opened his eyes, they were still there, with fresh corpses of daedra littering the ground. Deciding that he wasn't dreaming, Ilend approached them warily, sword drawn; it was never good to let your guard down in Oblivion.

Approaching the two, he noted that they couldn't be more different. One was a massive Orc, clad in full steel plate armour, his right hand gripping an enormous silver-worked mace. A pair of war braids hung to his waist, and a snarl was firmly planted on his face as he kicked a Dremora in the ribs, checking to see if it was dead. His companion was a Bosmer, barely reaching his chest. Unlike the Orc, who could be described, at best, as rugged, this Wood Elf could quite easily be described as beautiful; auburn hair framed a near-perfect face, the rest hanging to her waist in a ponytail. Her leather armour not only allowed complete freedom of movement, but also managed to be tight-fitting enough to show her considerable curves. However, Ilend looked past that and noted that she was likely to be an effective warrior; the arrow she had nocked in her composite bow and the readily available shortswords in her belt conformed that.

Deciding not to waste time, Ilend jogged up to the oddly matched duo. "It's good to see something that isn't daedric," he remarked as way of greeting.

"Savlian mentioned that he sent some of his men in," replied the Orc, his voice a deep, low rumble. "Are you all that's left?"

Ilend grimaced. "Most of the squad was trapped on that bridge and picked off," he muttered, indicating the mentioned bridge with a wave of his hand. "They captured one of us and took him to one of the towers." A flicker of hope sparked in Ilend; with these two helping him, he'd be able to rescue Menien. He wasn't about to let the old man rot in Oblivion.

The Orc snorted. "That bridge was obvious; you should have known it would lead to an ambush." His voice hadn't changed, and while Ilend was resentful of having the Guard's mistake pointed out, the Orsimer did have a point; they'd been too quick to rush in, without thinking.

"Hey, big guy? The sooner we get out of here, the better." The Bosmer's voice was just as Ilend had expected; sultry and somewhat flippant, despite the situation.

"You're right," replied the Orc. "I'm Gorgoth gro-Kharz, and this is Aerin. You with us, guardsman? We could use an extra blade."

"I'm Ilend Vonius, Watch Sergeant of the Kvatch Town Guard," reported Ilend. "I'd like nothing better than to shove this Gate up some Dremora's arse, but I'm not leaving until we've got Menien Goneld out of here. He's in one of the towers." The Imperial had his jaw set stubbornly, ready to argue, but Gorgoth merely nodded.

"Leave no man behind," he muttered, placing a hand on Ilend's head. The cool blue light of healing magicka engulfed the Imperial. He felt his exhaustion fade away, and his bruises heal. As the Orc withdrew his hand, Ilend looked up him curiously. The guard was a tall man, but Gorgoth was at least a head taller.

"That spell didn't feel like any healing magic I've felt before," said Ilend, a questioning tone in his voice.

"I added a few protective magics into the mix," replied the Orc, gripping his mace firmly and wiping some daedric blood off it. "Come on, let's move."

The three of them moved down the path that Ilend had taken earlier, Aerin nodding in admiration at the corpses the Imperial had left behind. "Not bad for a lone guardsman without a bow or magic," she commented, seemingly looking at him in a new light. She'd probably classified all guards as generic and rigid beforehand; good to see that he was changing perspectives for the better.

"You can do a lot with a sword, shield, and a bit of skill," rasped Ilend in response, his voice growing hoarse. His throat was dry and parched; his water had ran out a long time ago.

"A bit?" rumbled Gorgoth, looking down at a daedroth. "These slashes speak of the work of an expert swordsman." The Orc looked back at Ilend. "Seems like you can hold your own in Oblivion, at least," he grunted. "Give me your canteen." Ilend wordlessly unclipped his empty canteen from his sword belt and watched as Gorgoth refilled it using magical fire to melt magically created ice. Retrieving the bottle, Ilend took a few gulps, felt the cold water trickle down his throat, and sighed in relief.

"Two Dremora up ahead," announced Aerin casually. There were indeed two Dremora, a warrior and a mage, about fifty paces up the path, looking down at one of their dead brethren, killed by Ilend earlier. Ilend looked at Gorgoth in surprise as the Orc walked towards them, seemingly without a care in the world. Aerin simply shrugged. "He does that sometimes," she informed the Imperial.

The Dremora looked up at the sound of the Orc's boots crunching on the earth. The mage snarled and sent a fireball at Gorgoth. It impacted squarely on his chest, but had no visible effect. Ilend moved up, ready to support Gorgoth, but he doubted that he'd be needed. The Dremora warrior reached the Orc and thrust his longsword at Gorgoth's gut. The warrior-shaman parried the blow, putting the Dremora off balance, and bringing his mace crashing down on his skull. The body had barely dropped to the ground when Gorgoth looked up and sent a fireball the size of a horse at the mage. The Dremora barely had time to widen his eyes before he was vaporised.

"We could have used a few spellswords like you in the Kvatch Guard," murmured Ilend as he poked the warrior's body with his foot. Gorgoth merely grunted, but Aerin snorted.

"Please! Can ya imagine someone like _him_ in uniform?" she asked, rolling her eyes at Ilend's wolfshead-embossed surcoat. "You're meant ta help the citizens, not glower down at them and prattle on about reducing weaknesses and people helping themselves." She sniggered and nudged Gorgoth in the ribs. The Orc completely ignored her, paying more attention to his surroundings than the enthusiastic Bosmer that barely reached his chest.

"How did you two end up working together?" asked Ilend, shaking his head in disbelief and keeping a lookout for daedra. Their pairing seemed odder and odder by the minute; he doubted he'd ever be able to understand it. They seemed opposites in personality as well as appearance; the Orc stoic and controlled, while Aerin seemed carefree and willing to let her emotions run wild.

"It's really quite simple," replied Aerin, flashing a toothy grin at him. "I was bored with my easy existence in the Imperial City, so when big guy here came along with what promised ta be an epic quest, I was hooked and managed ta get him ta take me along." She rubbed her chin. "That was about a week ago, give or take a few days. He's a good enough mate once ya get used ta his, ya know, emotional armour." The Wood Elf giggled and looked at Gorgoth sideways. He seemed to be paying absolutely no attention to their conversation, merely keeping a lookout as they continued down the path.

"Epic quest?" asked Ilend, frowning.

"It's a long story. You'd be better off asking Gorgoth."

Gorgoth grunted. "She describes it like I'm some dashing knight saving the world," he growled.

"Well, you are saving the world, ain't ya, big guy?" purred Aerin.

The Orc frowned down at her. "There's nothing dashing or knightly about me, Aerin," he rumbled. "If you knew of some of the things I've done, you'd probably want to get as far away as possible." He seemed to be looking inwards at something unpleasant. Ilend realised that while the Orc seemed young, in his early thirties at most, he had the eyes of a wise old man who'd seen much of the world. Gorgoth sighed and went back to surveying their surroundings. "But you're right. Some small part of the quest to save this land seems to have fallen to me. When your destiny arrives, it is best to grasp it with both hands and go forward with confidence."

"Sage advice, Orc, but I'd rather know what's going on here," muttered Ilend irritably. He was here to rescue Menien and close the damn Oblivion Gate, not hear a lecture about destiny.

"The Emperor is dead. The Dragonfires are dark," replied Gorgoth. "Tamriel is open to invasion by Mehrunes Dagon. The physical proof is right here." The Orc waved an arm at the plane of Oblivion they were trespassing in. "The Emperor, before his death, told me how to prevent it. He has an illegitimate heir, living in Kvatch. He needs to light the Dragonfires so the magical barrier will prevent this from happening again."

Ilend scratched his chin, deep in thought. His knowledge of the Dragonfires and Oblivion was only sketchy – he was no mage – but what Gorgoth was saying about the heir rang a bell. The red-robed agents had mentioned 'Uriel's bastard' when they were watching the Chapel. "Who is the heir?" he asked, already fairly certain of the answer. When Gorgoth looked at him, obviously seeking a reason for imparting such information, he added: "I know Kvatch and its people. I can help you find him, if he's still alive."

The warrior-shaman nodded. "His name is Martin," he grunted. "Apparently, he's a priest at the Chapel of Akatosh. You know him?"

"I overheard some enemy agents discussing 'Uriel's bastard' when they were watching the chapel," explained Ilend.

Gorgoth grunted. "Scouting him out," he mused, shuffling back rapidly as a miniature avalanche threatened to sweep them into the lava.

"It seems that everything is Oblivion is trying ta kill us," observed Aerin as she clambered over the fallen rocks. "Daedra, plants, and now rocks. Charming." She made an obscene gesture at the massive tower looming in the distance.

"Stay focused, Aerin," growled Gorgoth. "This is Oblivion, not a few bandits prodding us with sharp sticks. Letting your guard down, even for a second, is-"

"Weakness, I know, I know," sighed Aerin, throwing her arms up in exasperation. "I don't need a lecture, big guy. What I do need is a way out of here before I start boiling." Sweat was trickling down her face in streams; Ilend guessed that it was forming rivers under her armour, judging by the several damp patches. "Say, big guy, why don't ya just levitate up ta that tower and be done with it, instead of tramping around in this maze?" Ilend raised an eyebrow; knowledge of levitation magic was rare, having not being taught in over ten years following the Levitation Act of 421.

Gorgoth grunted. "I tried," he replied. "It was like attempting to levitate into a bog. The air seemed to close in to resist my passage. It seems that Dagon doesn't like levitation in his realm." The Orc looked up at the tower. "There's also a limit to how high I can jump," he muttered.

They'd stopped at a fork in the road. One led to one of the smaller towers, while the other, larger path seemed to lead a winding route to the main tower. Ilend immediately started off towards the smaller tower. "I'm not leaving Menien in their clutches for another second," he growled to Gorgoth.

"Thought you might," replied Gorgoth. "Aerin, go with him," he said to the Bosmer. When she hesitated, he turned his gaze on her. "I'll meet up with you later. You think I can't handle myself?" The Bosmer shook her head and scurried off to catch up with Ilend.

The Imperial grunted as she fell in beside him, arrow nocked, but he was comforted by her presence. It would be good to have someone to watch his back. He'd learnt the hard way how dangerous Oblivion was.

* * *

Most normal mortals would have found the resistance stiff on the approaches to the giant tower, but Gorgoth simply scythed through the daedric lines, leaving broken, bleeding bodies behind him. When confronted with a giant fire blocking his path, the Orc merely increased his resistance to heat and fire and calmly walked through. Crunching his way over the parched earth to the massive obsidian door, Gorgoth was already working out ways to open it, expecting it to be a complex process, and so was pleasantly surprised when it simply opened to his touch, levers and chains clanking to swing the colossal doors open.

Gorgoth's eyes were instantly drawn to the massive column of liquid fire spearing up into the tower's upper reaches and out of sight. Even in his position from the doorway, he could feel the immense amount of magicka running through the beam, and instantly knew that it had something to do with the Sigil Stone. Deducing that it had to be at the top of the tower, the Orc looked for a way up.

Two Dremora seemed to object to his presence, both drawing maces and running towards the Orc from different directions. Gorgoth moved swiftly to meet one, parrying his swing and kicking him into the barrier separating the rest of the tower from the liquid fire. The Dremora scrambled to his feet, but Gorgoth was faster. The Orc spun and delivered a fierce roundhouse kick to the Dremora's gut. He was lifted off his feet and deposited in the boiling cauldron of the liquid fire. The Dremora didn't last a second.

Gorgoth was already turning to the other one, who threw a small fireball ahead of him. The Orc thrust out his left hand and reflected the fireball back at the Dremora. It impacted on his cuirass, causing little real damage but shocking the Dremora enough for Gorgoth to step forward and smash his skull in. Cleaning the blood and brains off his mace head, Gorgoth located a set of stairs leading up and started jogging his way up towards the Sigil Stone.

The black obsidian walls let in no light from outside, but the tunnels seemed to be lit by the omnipresent light that permeated the Realm. The bleakness of his surroundings gave Gorgoth time to think as he jogged upwards. He'd naturally welcomed the addition of the blade of the guardsman, and he'd quickly established that Ilend Vonius had a good head on his shoulders. The Imperial was also very good with a blade, and to survive for that long alone in Oblivion spoke of a good warrior. Not only that, but his knowledge of the city could prove useful if they had to comb the wreckage for Martin. It was a stroke of good fortune that he hadn't perished with his comrades.

Gorgoth was also wondering about what would happen when they eventually got Martin back to safety. He guessed that he'd use the Amulet of Kings to relight the Dragonfires, repair the barriers, and be crowned Emperor. What happened after that wouldn't be of Gorgoth's concern; the Emperor would have the Blades to protect him, and Gorgoth's part in the tale would be over. He'd be set adrift in a foreign land, with no intention of returning home, yet just as lacking as he had been in Orsinium. The Orc's work as a freelance spellsword brought in the money, but it was unfulfilling. It had been a long time since Gorgoth had found a cause worth fighting for; he was beginning to think that his current situation was worth it, but it would probably be over shortly.

The warrior-shaman growled and shook himself out of his reverie. He needed to concentrate on the present, not the future, or there might not be a future for Tamriel. Coming to a door, similar to the massive front door to the tower but smaller, her pushed it open and stepped into a small room, seemingly containing nothing but four pillars and sharp objects. Apparently, Dagon liked to trap his own minions, judging by the decayed body of a scamp lying near a set of suspicious-looking holes in the wall. Gorgoth was prevented from mulling this over by the appearance of a Seducer. She flung a poisonous-looking cocktail of spells at him, which the Orc quickly absorbed. Turning her own magicka against her, the warrior-shaman sent lightning coursing through her body, crackling as it lit up the room, making the daedra's body convulse as the Seducer gave up the ghost.

Letting his dead enemy drop to the floor, Gorgoth looked around for a further passage. There were several, most leading deeper into the tower; undoubtedly leading to living quarters or something of the sort. The Orc followed the path going up, dispatching various daedra, who had obviously been alerted to his presence by the numerous bodies he had left strewn about the tower; with the many small passageways, it would have been easy to slip past the Orc and get a warning to the other daedra. It made no difference; the daedra made no difference to Gorgoth's ascent, save for momentarily slowing it.

As the Orc continued his path up the tower towards the Sigil Stone, the daedra thrown into his path seemed to get stronger and stronger, but they might as well have been pebbles in the road for all they slowed Gorgoth. However, one thing stopped him dead in his tracks, and that was a locked door. His normally strong Alteration magic was doing nothing, and he couldn't see any way to force the door. Torturing the method of moving forward out of a defeated Dremora was an attractive proposition, but impossible; the only Dremora anywhere near Gorgoth were no longer breathing. The Orc growled and looked around for alternate routes.

* * *

The howl of the Clannfear turned into a gurgle as Ilend cut its throat open. He turned, sword and surcoat covered in blood, to find Aerin slicing a scamp's chest open, her two shortswords leaving a deep cross-shaped cut on the daedra's chest. Ilend nodded in appreciation. "Very artistic," he observed. The Bosmer favoured him with a smile as she slipped her swords back into her sheathes; she'd obviously prefer to use Trueshot, but the cramped confines of the tower made using a bow impractical.

"So, what do ya reckon?" asked Aerin, looking around at the grim obsidian inside of the tower, now decorated in places with daedric blood. They were on the bottom level, with no clear way to reach the top. The room's sole feature was a platform of sorts with wicked-looking red spikes poking up through holes. The crimson splattering over the platform indicated that many living things had been skewered in the past.

"I can't see an obvious way up," muttered Ilend distractedly. He was examining an odd mechanism attached to a lever on the platform. Shoving a dead Clannfear out of the way with his foot, he gave the lever an experimental tug towards him. To his surprise, a mechanical clanking sounded deep in the bowels of the tower, and the platform shuddered, as though a great force was acting apon it. Recognition flared in Ilend's eyes, and he spun back to Aerin.

"Get on," he shouted over the clanking. When she gestured at the spikes with a bewildered expression, he merely grabbed her and roughly hauled her onto the platform, finding a safe place with his back against the main central spike. With a groan and a shudder that made Ilend's chainmail clank, the platform started to judder its way upwards. Ilend, still holding on tight to Aerin, his arms long enough to almost wrap around her waist twice, exchanged glances with the Bosmer. Trueshot was digging into his chest.

"Ya can let go of me now," she muttered. "We Bosmer are fairly good with heights." Ilend released her, somewhat awkwardly, and she made her way to the edge of the platform, looking up. The Imperial imitated her, scanning the quickly approaching ledge for any enemies. Two Dremora were scowling down at them with swords drawn, but Aerin soon sent them tumbling down the shaft with arrows piercing their armour. One landed in the middle of a spike right next to Ilend, spraying his chainmail with blood, while the other bounced off the edge of the platform and crashed to the floor below.

The platform ground to a halt, the sudden cease of the juddering motion throwing Ilend and Aerin off balance momentarily. Slinging Trueshot onto her back, the Bosmer whipped out her twin shortswords and launched herself at another Dremora, who fell back, struggling contain this small manifestation of furious energy. A daedroth raised its claws, ready to tear Aerin's back open, but Ilend got there first, smashing his shield into the daedroth's gaping maw. As the steel sliced through gum and bone, Ilend ignored the beast's howling and flailing and delivered a thrust to the chest. The massive crocodile-headed daedra fell over sideways, crushing an unfortunate scamp.

Aerin's shortswords, while both elegant and deadly, didn't have the power to penetrate the daedric plate armour covering the Dremora, and he was good at covering his weak spots. The armoured daedra was slowly backing her into a corner, until Ilend walked up behind him and decapitated him, finding a gap in the armour from the helmet to the cuirass. The helmeted head bounced on the floor and fell down one of the holes in the platform. Ilend smirked at the thought of the next visitor finding the Dremora's head glaring at them from atop a sharp stake.

"You hear that?" asked Aerin, cocking her head to one side and frowning. Ilend looked at her curiously and strained his ears. While they weren't as sensitive as a mer's, he heard the next yell from further up the tower quite clearly. No daedra would have that voice.

"Menien," he grunted, sprinting over to the stone spiral ramp and looking up. It was a long way to the top of the tower. The Imperial cursed and started running, Aerin keeping pace just behind him. A Clannfear stood in their way, but was smashed aside by Ilend without mercy. It fell squawking down the shaft and was impaled on the main platform spike, squirming around for a few minutes before succumbing to death. The two mortals had long since moved on.

A Dremora roared in either anger or fear as Ilend pushed it down the shaft, the Imperial silently thanking the tower's constructors for making the ramps so thin. Menien's voice was growing clearer at every step; it was as though he was talking to someone. It was hard for Ilend to move quickly and keep his balance while wearing heavy chainmail and the bulky Kvatch surcoat, but he didn't want to waste any time; if Menien was being tortured, he wasn't about to sit back and let it happen.

Ilend stepped out onto the top level of the tower. It was largely barren, save for a cage hanging over the middle of a glass platform placed directly over the shaft. Menien was in the cage, bloody and covered in bruises, but glaring defiantly at the helmetless Dremora interrogating him. The Dremora turned its orange eyes, full of malice, apon Ilend as the Imperial stepped forward in a combat stance, Aerin a few feet behind him. The Dremora slowly drew his longsword, eyes never drifting from Ilend's own weapon.

"Come on, you fucker," growled Ilend.

"I shall take pleasure in stripping the flesh from your bones, mortal," hissed the Dremora, grinning sadistically.

"How charming," muttered Aerin, wrinkling her nose in distaste. She started to take Trueshot off her back. The Dremora spotted this and to deny her a good shot, launched himself at Ilend. As the two swordsmen fought it out, Aerin sighed in frustration and stepped back with an arrow nocked, waiting for an opening.

Ilend grunted as he spun to lessen the impact of a slash. His chainmail rattled, but the angle wasn't good for the Dremora, and his blade bounced off. The Imperial staggered and jabbed his shield at the Dremora to buy some time. His opponent jumped back out of range. The Dremora was good, very good, but Ilend was fuelled by his icy, undying rage, fuelled by merely looking at the wounds the Dremora had inflicted on his comrade. Menien himself was leaning on the bars of his cramped cell, watching the duel as though he was in the Kvatch Arena and not suspended in a tiny cage in Oblivion.

Going on the attack, Ilend forced his opponent back against the wall, locking swords and pushing with all his might to get the interrogator off balance. However, in a battle of pure strength, there could only be one winner between Imperial and Dremora, and Ilend was sent crashing to the floor. His shield blocked the Dremora's thrust and gained a new dent for the trouble. A scything kick took out his opponent's legs, and the daedra crashed down beside Ilend. This move had inadvertently saved the Kyn's life, as a moment later an arrow buried itself in the wall where he had been seconds ago. Ilend heard Aerin scream in frustration as both swordsmen dragged themselves to their feet.

Now it was the Dremora's turn to attack, and Ilend was concerned to feel his shield, already loose on his arm, start to crack. He doubted that the painted steel had ever been intended to stand up to such punishment as it had sustained in the last few days. Growling in frustration, Ilend took a few steps back and thrust out his shield arm. The loose bindings failed, and the shield shot off his arm. The Dremora hadn't been expecting such a move, and his orange eyes widened as the sheer force of Ilend's throw, combined with the shield's sharp edge, neatly decapitated him. The shield's momentum carried it straight into the opposite wall, where it cracked into several pieces. Ilend had already sheathed his sword and was hurrying over to Menien.

"Good to see at least one of us survived," greeted Menien, the words sounding even grimmer when they were spoken by a face plastered with blood. "Get me out of here, Ilend, and we can pay these fuckers back."

"You have any idea how they got you in here?" asked Ilend, studying the cage. There seemed to be no obvious hinges, and the steel looked strong.

"With a bloody dent in my skull?" growled Menien. "I only woke up about half an hour ago, then that charming fellow started asking me a load of drivel." The Imperial spat at the headless corpse of the Dremora.

Ilend scratched his head as he attempted to figure out a way to open the cage. Pulling and pushing at it from every angle did nothing, and his attempts to find the hinges were fruitless. He was about to attempt to use his sword as a wrench when a door on the level below them opened. Aerin was instantly alert, arrow ready to be released down the ramp, but as the massive shape moved up to the top floor she relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Martial might won't do much to that cage," rumbled Gorgoth, observing Ilend's drawn sword and its position in the cage. "It's made of daedric steel and infused with magic. Not many mortal-made weapons can break it."

"Well, how the fuck do I get out of here, then?" yelled Menien angrily, obviously frustrated at his own helplessness.

"Stand back," ordered Gorgoth. Ilend complied, sheathing his sword and moving so far back that he was almost pressing against the wall. The Orc held out his right hand, palm open and facing downwards. A dull red glow flickered and faded around the palm, and with a tremendous ripping sound, one side of the cage tore itself apart. Menien blinked somewhat stupidly at his new freedom, then stumbled out of the cage, wincing as his left leg threatened to collapse beneath him. Gorgoth moved in and healed him. Instantly, the Imperial's bruises and gashes faded, and he stood up straight, stiff as a rod, radiating fury.

"You know how to close that Gate?" he asked Gorgoth. Getting a nod in response, he smiled grimly, dried blood crumbling as he worked his facial muscles. "Then, if you're a mage, you can give me weapons and armour, and I'll help. I want revenge, for me, my men, and my city."

Gorgoth held up his palm again, and again it lit up, this time in a brighter orange-red glow. Menien suddenly staggered under the added weight of a full suit of bound daedric plate armour. He swiftly recovered, and drew the bound daedric longsword that had appeared in a scabbard at his waist. "Not bad," he grunted appreciatively.

"I'm maintaining the spell, so you won't have to worry about losing them until I dispel it," Gorgoth told him. He bent and started disintegrating the armour of the dead Dremora. "I had the fortune of finding a Dremora who was still alive, barely. Under torture, he revealed that the Sigil Keeper had the key to the Sigil keep." The removal of the Dremora's cuirass revealed a pouch around his neck. Gorgoth reached inside and drew out a thin key, designed to fit through the slots of the daedric doors. "This looks to be it," he grunted, pushing himself to his feet.

Menien was already impatiently striding down to the open door. "Don't step out too quickly," growled Gorgoth as a warning. The Imperial snorted as he stepped through the door. He abruptly stopped as he realised that he was on a very narrow bridge leading between the two towers, with the ground below appearing very far away. Menien immediately drew into himself, getting to the very centre of the path, trying to make himself as small as possible. He knew that if the far heavier Gorgoth could get across safely, so could he, but the lack of a central support under the bridge froze his feet.

"Come on, ya big lummox," laughed Aerin as she somehow danced around him and sauntered across the bridge without a care in the world. "A guard, scared of heights?" She shook her head. "What's the world coming to?" Menien wasn't about to respond to either her or Ilend's hesitant prodding him from behind; he just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, slowly, very carefully not looking down until he was across the bridge.

Gorgoth stomped over to the door that had previously denied him and rammed the key into the gap between the two doors. With a squelching sound, they opened, revealing yet another passageway similar to every other one in the tower, leading upwards. Mace at the ready, Gorgoth led the way, the passage sometimes shrinking enough to force him to duck his head. Finally, after a run-in with two spider daedra, they reached a ridge sticking out of the side of the tower. The beam of pure magicka was clearly visible, as was the place where it entered the Sigil Keep; a roof made of a blood-red fleshy material with a gap admitting the magicka.

Two Dremora archers opened fire from a higher ridge, but their arrows were ineffective against Gorgoth's magical shielding, and Aerin quickly shot them down. Gorgoth casually smashed a Clannfear down into the deep shaft as though swatting a fly. It screamed and twisted as it plummeted into the darkness, spinning as it bounced off the side of the tower, a massive dent in its torso visible where Gorgoth's mace had struck it.

"You've got a swing on you," commented Menien as his daedric blade sliced through a daedroth like a hot knife through butter. "Could have used you in the Kvatch Guard on that cursed night." The Imperial looked at his blade in admiration, obviously regretting the fact that he couldn't keep it.

Aerin snorted. "You're the second guardsman to have told him that today. Give him a break, him and uniform don't mix." The Bosmer nimbly picked her way through the separated halves of the daedroth that Menien had killed. "Hey, big guy, you'd better take the lead. If anyone here's gonna imitate a battering ram, you're the closest fit."

Gorgoth didn't respond, merely leading the way up the ramp, meeting no resistance. He suspected that the daedra were lying in wait in the Sigil Keep, probably creating traps and laying an ambush. The warrior-shaman renewed the protective spells over the entire group. Ignoring various doors cleft into the side of the tower, Gorgoth kept on up the ramp until they were just under the fleshy floor of the Sigil Keep. The Orc inserted the key into the ordinary-looking door and it opened to his touch.

Stepping through the doorway, the atmosphere didn't change, but Gorgoth got the feeling of being watched. The grey floor, made of an unknown material with angry red veins permeating the surface, crunched under their feet. The passageway circled around where Gorgoth judged the Sigil Keep to be and eventually they came across two openings to the Keep itself. He muttered for them to stay close to him and to watch their backs before stepping through the arch.

The wide open room was welcome after the cramped confines of the tower, but none of the mortals noticed the sharp stairs that looked almost like blades leading to another level, nor the fleshy ramps on that level leading to where the beam of pure magicka went. They were more concerned with the small army of daedra awaiting them. Dagon wasn't about to let his Gate be closed easily. Multiple Dremora archers on the upper level stepped forward and loosed their arrows straight into a magical shield hastily created by Gorgoth. More Dremora, both warriors and mages, advanced over the blood-red floor towards the mortals, with almost every variety of daedra present and hungering for blood. Gorgoth immediately beckoned his comrades closer.

"Get close to me, quickly," he growled, his voice urgent. When they were all within touching distance, he created a transparent magical barrier that seemed to keep out even the very air they breathed. The warrior-shaman immediately held out his right palm and started muttering something under his breath in his native tongue. The daedra reached the barrier and started pounding on it. Everyone except Gorgoth flinched, but the barrier was holding up even against the mighty sledgehammer blows of two daedroths. Gorgoth's hand started to visibly glow with a dull white light.

A small sphere, glowing with a bright white light, appeared several feet over the heads of the daedra, still attempting to break down his shield. The globe started to spin, gaining speed, glowing brighter. Some of the Dremora mages recognised it and dived for cover in ultimately futile gestures to save their own skins. Others attempted to destroy the sphere, but it seemed to absorb everything they threw at it, the various fireballs, lightning and ice shards swallowed by the blinding light.

As the light from the globe forced the Dremora to shield their eyes, something seemed to move under the surface of the orb. Gorgoth clenched his fist, which was also shining with the same light, then swept his arm wide. The very air seemed to crackle as hundreds of lightning bolts struck out from the globe in every direction, smashing into daedra and tossing them around like rag dolls. Another wave of strikes followed, then another, decimating the daedra, before the globe collapsed and faded from view. Gorgoth lowered his arm and released the magical shielding from around the group of mortals. If the massive expenditure of magicka or the complexity of the spell had tired him, he didn't show any signs of it.

Aerin could only croak feebly in astonishment. The two Imperials were stunned into silence. Gorgoth merely walked past the heaps of broken daedra, ignoring the shattered bodies lying everywhere as he made his way up to the upper levels of the keep. His companions eventually recovered from the shock and followed him, finding it hard to place their feet on the cold metal of the floor instead of the scorched flesh of a daedric minion or the still-sparking armour of a Dremora. A single scamp dragged itself out from under a pile of bodies and squeaked in terror, not knowing which way to run until Aerin put it out of its misery by sending an arrow into its eye.

Shaking off the feebly grasping hand of a mortally wounded Dremora, Gorgoth walked up to the Sigil Stone. It was blacker than the darkest night, slowly revolving in the inferno of pure magicka that served as its anchor, allowing the Realm to keep the Gate to Tamriel open. Gorgoth, without a hint of hesitation, reached out to take it, but Aerin stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Er... how are we gonna get back to Kvatch?" she asked nervously. "Do ya know if taking that is gonna get us back?" She was biting her lip, obviously and justifiably worried that they might not make it home.

Gorgoth looked down at her, his face unreadable as usual. "I don't," he replied. "There's simply no other option." With that, he reached into the liquid fire. His armour started to clank due to the extreme heat, but Gorgoth himself was unaffected as he plucked the Sigil Stone out of its anchor. It seemed to be cool; at the very least, there was no heat or cold penetrating his gauntlet, but he wasn't about to touch it with his naked hand.

Immediately, the beam of magicka shot up into the angry skies of Oblivion. As Gorgoth stepped back, the entire tower began to shake, disturbing the bodies of the dead. Cracks started to appear in the obsidian walls of the tower as the beam, with no Sigil Stone to control it, started to wildly expand out of control. A wall of flame shot up the tower, consuming everything in its path. Within seconds, it had reached the Sigil Keep and swallowed the intruders.

The sensation was similar to entering the gate; surrounded by flames with extreme heat searing at the body and lungs. Just as suddenly; it was over; they were staggering out of the rapidly imploding Gate, back into Tamriel. Aerin fell to her knees and sucked in lungfuls of air. Menien stared blankly into the distance, as though unable to believe that he had escaped. Ilend sighed in relief at the heavy rain soothing his hot skin and leaned on his sword. Gorgoth simply turned, ignoring the pounding rain, and stood watching the Gate crumble into ruin. The remnant of the arch remained and the scorched earth around it were the only signs that there had once been a fiery portal to Oblivion standing outside the gates of Kvatch. The siege was over.

Savlian Matius immediately sprinted up. "You did it!" he shouted, as though needing to verbally confirm that the Oblivion Gate had been closed. "Now we can get into the city to launch a counterattack. There are people still in there!" The Imperial's face hardened. "We're not leaving anyone behind," he muttered. His blade rattled as it left the scabbard, and he beckoned to the guards still standing behind the barricades.

Ilend and Menien, despite their fatigue from battling through an entire plane of Oblivion, were the first to draw their swords and adopt the look of grim determination that had been common in Kvatch over the last few days. The remnants of the Kvatch guard soon joined them, all tired, all grasping chipped swords and wearing damaged armour, but all wearing the same determined expression as they stared through the open gates at their ruined city. Aerin merely groaned and mumbled something about needing a rest, but dragged herself to her feet and nocked an arrow nonetheless. Gorgoth drew his mace, letting it hang loosely by his side.

"Time to take back our bloody city," snarled Savlian.

* * *

**A/N: Don't forget to review. The next upload might take a long time anyway, but it might take even longer if I don't get new reviewers encouraging me to write more...**


	11. The Fury of a City

**A/N: OK, since my last upload, Blood and Steel has surpassed 1000 hits... yet I got only two reviews for Chapter 10. No additions to those two regular reviewers, Arty Thrip and the Underpaid Critic. This... angers me somewhat. If you can be bothered to read this, then you can be bothered to leave feedback.**

**On a more story-related note, I noticed something about Seducers. Most of you will probably assume that they're the Dark Seducers from the Shivering Isles, but in fact they're actually something quite different, being added by the OOO mod. Basically, they look a lot like Dark Seducers, but they're naked and fling some very annoying spells at you. Only realised my misplaced assumption when I realised that these Seducers aren't actually in vanilla (unmodded) Oblivion.**

**Underpaid Critic: I recently joined a fanfiction community thing, and posted a link to this there. When it actually starts getting some attention there, hopefully some experienced critics will give it a grilling.**

**Anyhow... read on. And don't forget to review.**

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: The Fury of a City**

The sky might have returned to its natural state, but it was no less forbidding than before. Dark clouds rolled overhead, blanketing the city from horizon to horizon. The rain poured and thunder rumbled, as though the heavens themselves were angry at the rape of Kvatch. The falling water hammered into the bloodstained cobblestones, and in time the streets would be running red with blood, both old and new.

Warned by their collapsing gate, the daedra were ready for the assault, and the Dremora were hastily forming ranks in the main plaza between the gates and the chapel. The mighty steeple had partly collapsed, the top half blocking the main road to the castle, the shattered remnants jutting into the sky like broken teeth. The bodies of guards and daedra from the previous battles were piled around the edge of the plaza, heaps of stinking corpses clogging streets and spilling out of the skeletons of houses.

The daedra didn't get the chance to organise. Gorgoth's magicka pool was still diminished, but his lightning bolts found the most heavily armoured Dremora and struck them down. Aerin and the two remaining Guard archers fired while running forward, cutting down yet more daedra, Trueshot giving the power to punch through even daedric steel. Most of the Guardsmen were roaring wordless battle cries as they rushed to meet the daedra.

Gorgoth reached the enemy first. Marking his target, a daedroth, he kept up his speed and jumped, using his momentum to smash his mace into the daedra's face. Landing in a crouch, the Orc looked up to see the daedroth land several feet away, its skull caved in. Around him, the guardsmen cut into the daedric lines, their unleashed fury being too much for the depleted line, mainly comprised of Dremora, to withstand.

"Punish them!" roared Savlian Matius, his blade slicing open a Dremora's face. He turned and gestured to the ruins of Kvatch. "That's what they did to your city! Make them feel your pain!" His men, spurred on by his words, didn't hold back. Neither the daedra in the square nor their reinforcements rushing from the streets could withstand them.

"Looks like Kvatch is getting its revenge," snarled Ilend to no-one in particular as he disembowelled a scamp, then turned and cut a clannfear's legs off. A Seducer screeched at him and threw a spell. Ilend barely dodged it, and looked up just in time to see an arrow feathering the daedra's chest.

"This rain is playing havoc with my shooting!" shouted Aerin as she took up a position beside him. A group of four Dremora sprinted into the plaza from a side street. Despite the rain and the speed, Aerin planted her feet and shot all four of them down within ten seconds, their armour proving no match for Trueshot's power. "You'd think Gorgoth could control the weather, after that stunt he pulled in Oblivion," she continued, muttering half to herself. "Maybe he just likes getting wet!"

"Aerin, what in Oblivion are you blathering about?" yelled Ilend, cutting a flame atronach, weakened by the rain, in two. "This is a bloody battle, not a chat with your mates in a tavern!" He ducked out of the way of a scamp's fireball, cursing his lost shield.

"It's like Owyn used ta say: not even a battle shuts me up!" laughed Aerin, spinning and releasing an arrow, seemingly almost without aiming. It pierced the scamp's stomach, and the brown-skinned lesser daedra was thrown to the ground by the force of the arrow. The Bosmer whipped another arrow out of her quiver, only to find no targets; the last remaining daedra were being finished off, and bodies littered the plaza. "Heh, not bad," commented Aerin, returning her arrow to its quiver and leaning on Trueshot. "I always assumed all city guards were fat Imperial Legion dropouts." She was looking at the Kvatch Guard efficiently dispatch stragglers.

"We ARE the Imperial Legion," growled Ilend, sheathing his sword with unnecessary force and frowning down at his companion. "Regional forces permanently attached to a city, but we can apply for reassignment if we want." The Imperial raised his head and looked over the battlefield. "And if you want to insult the brave men and women who died for their city, do it out of earshot."

Aerin took a step back, hands raised in an apologetic gesture. "Hey, sorry, I just thought... never mind. You've all proved me wrong, in any case." Looking down, she noticed the rain dripping off the end of the rain-soaked Trueshot. She hissed and went off to find Gorgoth, presumably so that he could stop it raining.

Gorgoth was in no mood to talk. His right arm was outstretched, thin filaments of lightning holding aloft a red-robed agent, who was struggling to answer the Orc's probing questions due to the lightning making its way around his body. Most of the guards were clustered around them, glaring at the struggling figure with looks of pure hatred and malice. Human agents of Mehrunes Dagon would obviously get swift justice in this city. As Aerin reached Gorgoth's side, the Orc growled a curse in his own language and dropped the agent to the ground, motioning for the guards to do whatever they wished to him.

"Hey, big guy, can ya do something about the weather?" Aerin asked him, holding up Trueshot. "It's playing havoc with my bow, and I wouldn't-" Gorgoth cut her off.

"Few outside the Psijic Order can control the weather, and I am not one of them," growled the warrior-shaman. He reached out and took Trueshot, hands deftly working up and down the silver-worked wood, fingering the fine string. As his fingers worked, Gorgoth came the closest to expressing shock that Aerin had ever seen; he raised an eyebrow and stated nodding to himself, handling the bow with greater care. He handed it back to her. "Feel it," he muttered. "It is wet on the surface, but the silver repels the water; underneath it is as dry as it would be in the Alik'r Desert. Rain will do no harm to this bow, nor whatever string is in use."

Aerin's jaw dropped as she examined Trueshot. It was as Gorgoth said: rain dripped off the end of the bow, but underneath she could feel the hard wood repelling the wet stains on her gauntlets by some unknown force. She looked up at Gorgoth's unreadable face. "What is this?" she asked, slightly awed. "I came across it in the Fighting Chance. I paid good money for it, but if Rohssan had known its true value..." her voice trailed off, amazed at her find.

"I cannot pronounce its true name, for it was made by Argonians deep within Black Marsh, but I know the type," replied Gorgoth. "Several of these bows were made during the Armanias uprising in the time of Kataria. The Imperials crushed the uprising and the creators were killed, but the bows remained, scattering throughout Tamriel." Gorgoth rubbed his chin, brow furrowed. "I remember reading about these, but I never thought I would ever lay my eyes on one."

"Does it do anything else?" asked Aerin eagerly, almost hopping on the spot with impatience.

Gorgoth shook his head. "The bows were enchanted to endure the conditions of Black Marsh for centuries, and to penetrate the heavy armour of the Legions," he explained. "There was no need for other enchantment." The warrior-shaman peered again at Trueshot. "It may not be made for a Bosmer, but that is one of the finest bows of its size ever made," he grunted. He placed a massive hand on Aerin's shoulder; it engulfed most of her upper arm. "Use it well, and keep it safe," he told her. "I would hate for an artefact such as this to fall into the hands of an enemy."

Aerin laughed. "Hey, don't worry, big guy," she reassured. "After this... hey, I'll _sleep_ with it." Gorgoth grunted in reply and was called over to heal a wounded guardsman.

Ilend closed Jesan Rilian's eyes as he and Merandil laid the fallen guard near the gate. "Sorry, Jesan, but I'll need this more than you do," apologised Ilend, taking Jesan's shield and binding it to his arm. The guardsmen had taken few casualties; there were four wounded who could be healed by Gorgoth, and Jesan was their only loss; his entrails lay somewhere on the cobblestones, having been ripped out by a clannfear. Merandil was decidedly not looking at the gaping hole in his dead comrade's torso as he turned away.

As Ilend walked over to Savlian, testing his new shield, he overheard a scout report that the plaza was clear, and that there were no daedra in sight down the adjoining streets. Savlian nodded, sighing in relief, and beckoned Gorgoth over.

"We wiped the bastards out," he growled, a vicious light gleaming in his eyes. His city was being avenged at least, and he was revelling in every minute of it. "It's safe to get those people out of the chapel and back down to the refugee camp. That way, they'll be far away from what fighting we have left." Gorgoth said nothing, but nodded in agreement.

"So, what's the plan now?" asked Aerin as she fell in beside Gorgoth as he led the way towards the chapel, which stood defiant in the ruined city, its steeple shattered but still mostly standing. "We grab Martin and leg it? Seems like the best choice if we want ta keep him safe."

"And leave this city to fester?" asked Gorgoth. "We'll help retake it; if all we can offer the refugees is the security of their city again, then we will offer it. The castle will be retaken."

Aerin sighed. "I knew you'd say that," she muttered. "Ever the helper of the people, ain't ya, big guy?" She looked up, expecting confirmation.

"I am a wanted man in many different provinces of High Rock," replied Gorgoth, as though that was nothing out of the ordinary. "My list of crimes is long and often exaggerated, but I don't think the Bretons in the border villages count me as one of their helpers."

Aerin eyed him oddly. "You're a bloody onion, you are," she observed. "Every time I think I'm getting to know ya, another layer strips off." She shook her head and fell back, obviously seeking more desirable company.

Gorgoth reached the door to the chapel, but Savlian pushed past him and knocked firmly on the door. A challenge was issued from inside, and when he replied, there were the sounds of barricades being scraped across the floor of the chapel, presumably intended to keep out the enemy agents, as they were the only servants of Dagon who could walk on the holy ground of the chapel. Eventually, the doors swung open, and most of the guardsmen filed in. The besieged guards were understandably jumpy, and almost attacked Menien before seeing past his bound armour and realising that he wasn't a Dremora.

As Savlian heard the report from the commander of the handful of guards that had defended the chapel, Gorgoth and Aerin wandered amongst those taking refuge in the chapel, looking for Martin. Jauffre hadn't given a description, but Gorgoth had the face of the Emperor imprinted into his memory; his son couldn't look much different. However, there were numerous citizens in the chapel, most wearing a look of fear, but relief was visibly spreading among their ranks as word spread that their ordeal was over. Neither the Orc nor the Bosmer had located their target by the time Savlian ordered the civilians to move out, and called the two searchers back to him.

"When we were forced out of the city, the castle was still holding out," he informed them, his guards preparing for battle. "The Count may still be alive. We're the guardsmen of Kvatch, and we're not about to leave our Count in the lurch." The guardsmen shouted their approval; all of them, despite their exhaustion, looked ready for battle. Some looked downright bloodthirsty. A handful of them were in no uniform, and clutched a variety of weapons, but they all had the look of warriors. Gorgoth took them to be the surviving members of the local Fighter's Guild. Ilend was talking with them as though he knew them well.

"If we leave the chapel through the north door, the castle gates will be directly across the Statue Plaza," explained Savlian. "The collapsed steeple means that most of the streets from the left are blocked; I doubt we'll meet many reinforcements from there. The streets to the right concern me more; the Great Gate opened in that direction, near the Arena."

Gorgoth nodded. "Leave me to deal with the right flank," he grunted. "You take the rest and hack a path to the castle gates. When the right is secure, I'll meet you there."

Savlian opened his mouth, obviously about to ask how a single Orc could take on a small army of daedra, but Ilend interrupted. "You didn't see the magicka he unleashed back in Oblivion, Savlian," he explained. "I'd say he's more than capable of retaking the entire castle by himself. Securing the Statue Plaza would be child's play."

Savlian frowned. "My father once told me to be suspicious of anything too good to be true," he muttered suspiciously. The small talk among the guards trailed off as all eyes turned towards the Orc and the Imperial. Savlian's gaze was hostile. It appeared that a few guards shared Savlian's suspicion at Gorgoth's sudden, fortunate arrival. Orcs had yet to win the trust of many men and mer.

"Then your father was a wise man," replied Gorgoth. "You are blessed. My father was lacking in wisdom, and I have to say it cost him." Aerin looked sideways at the Orc, recalling him saying that he and his father were not on the best of terms. "However, when help is offered freely, it is best to accept, and save your reservations for later." Gorgoth extended a gauntleted hand, and placed his other fist over his heart. "I swear on my honour that I will help you retake Castle Kvatch, and I ask for nothing in return."

Savlian studied Gorgoth for a full minute before taking his hand, his chainmail rattling at contact with Gorgoth's plate armour. "I know little of Orsinium, but at the very least you seem like an honourable warrior," he grunted. He released Gorgoth's hand, and the tension in the chapel vanished. The captain of the Kvatch Guard turned back to his men. "The sooner the castle is retaken, the sooner we can start rebuilding," he announced. "It's time to take back our city, and let Dagon know that there is no place in Kvatch for the likes of him!" Savlian kicked open the north chapel doors and sprinted out at the head of his men.

Antus Pinter stood in the middle of the plaza, the weathered stone undamaged, sword still pointing towards the castle, seemingly in a gesture of defiance at the daedra who had occupied it. Dremora and assorted daedra were holding the plaza, ready for the guardsmen as they charged. The Kvatch Guard, numbers reinforced by those who had defended the chapel, marked their targets and sprinted towards them as fast as they could while wearing heavy chainmail. Two of the Fighter's Guild members were wearing lighter armour and reached the daedra first, throwing themselves into battle with none of the usual reservation of those who fight for money; they were fighting for their city and the avenging of it, not for material wealth.

As most of the guardsmen crashed into the daedra, with Aerin and three guards holding back, picking off targets, Gorgoth moved over to the east side of the square. As Savlian had explained, the streets leading to the plaza were unblocked, and daedric reinforcements were appearing. Most of the daedra in the plaza had already gone to aid their embattled brethren, but Gorgoth firmly planted himself between the approaching reinforcements and the battle behind him. Most of the daedra would have to go through him.

A handful of smarter Dremora moved out to the edges of the plaza, aiming to get around the Orc, but most of the daedra appeared eager to crush the seemingly foolish mortal that stood alone before them. Gorgoth, mace still secured in his belt, raised both his arms. A dark red mist seemed to coalesce around him, growing brighter, giving some of the daedra pause. The mist rose and expanded until it was twice Gorgoth's height, and reached across half the plaza. The warrior-shaman, his arms spread wide, thrust them forward and growled the incantation that would increase the spell's effectiveness.

The mist turned to fire, and split into hundreds of arrow-size filaments, speeding towards the massed daedra in front of Gorgoth, several filaments homing in on each daedra. Understanding their doom too late, they panicked and tried to run, but were all ripped apart by the Orc's magic. Those who didn't die from the sheer force of the impact were left to scream and weakly twitch as fire ravaged their already shattered bodies. Gorgoth slowly lowered his arms back to his sides, emotionlessly surveying the devastation that he'd unleashed. He turned back to the centre of the plaza.

Starved of reinforcements, the daedra were breaking; many Dremora lay dead, their acidic blood soaking the cobblestones and mingling with the rain. Menien had cut a swath through their ranks, with Ilend watching his back; the bound blade meant that the old guardsmen could cut through flesh and armour alike with comparative ease. Ilend's silver longsword barely dented daedric plate armour. The Imperial growled as, once again, the Dremora he was attacking spun and took Ilend's blow on his breastplate.

"Piece of crap," snarled Ilend, directing his words at his own silver longsword; the blade was notched and chipped in several places cue to the hard fighting it had seen over the last few days. Fortunately, it was spared any further punishment for the moment when Aerin's arrow took the Dremora in the throat. Evading his flailing arms and ignoring his desperate gurgles, Ilend moved forward and kicked a nearby scamp in the stomach, doubling it over and leaving its neck open to be decapitated by Merandil, the Altmer's axe proving perfect for the job.

The last bastion of resistance, two stubborn Dremora fighting back to back, was soon dealt with, leaving the Statue plaza clear of any live enemies, except for those unfortunate, wounded daedra still slowly being consumed by the fires of Gorgoth's spell. Gorgoth himself was frowning up at the castle battlements with arms folded; three Dremora archers were wasting their arrows attempting to break his shield spell. Gorgoth kept his gaze apon them, and, abruptly, the Dremora faltered, their fire stopped, and, as one, they climbed over the battlements and leapt to their deaths.

Aerin made a gurgling noise in her throat, her eyes wide. Gorgoth looked over his shoulder. "I believe that is the only time I have ever seen you speechless, Aerin," he stated, his voice wry. The Bosmer glared at him.

"Next time, just... fireball em or something," she muttered. "I know you're a powerful mage, ya don't have anything ta prove. Commanding em to take a trip off a castle wall is just _creepy_." She shuddered and moved up to where the guards were gathering at the castle gate. Gorgoth followed her and tended to the wounded. Again, the cost was low; two wounded and one dead.

Savlian was pounding on the closed castle gate, more in frustration than anything else. The iron portcullis stood a metre higher than him, and the iron was reinforced in several places. It led down a tunnel to the castle, which was secured by three more identical portcullises, with a guardhouse in the middle. "Damn it, I should have foreseen this," growled the irate guard captain. "They've locked the gates. The only way through is to take the tunnels into the gatehouse." He turned to Gorgoth, only to find the Orc silently motioning everyone out of the way. Realising the warrior-shaman's intentions, Savlian retreated to a safe distance.

Gorgoth's massive fireball lit up the entire plaza as it streaked towards the gate. The ground rocked with the explosion as it impacted on the portcullis, blowing it to smithereens. Some of the rocks cracked with the sheer heat, but the gateway itself was mostly undamaged. Gorgoth moved forward and repeated, disintegrating the second portcullis in similar fashion. By the time he had reached the fifth and final barrier, the Kvatch Guard had lined up behind him, weapons ready, poised to pour into the castle courtyard.

"There's a lot of daedra in there," reported Gorgoth, peering through the portcullis he was about to destroy. "I can thin out their numbers enough to make it an even fight. Prepare yourselves." Hilts were clutched tighter, arrows were half-drawn, and legs were braced for the explosion of speed needed to get to the enemy. Gorgoth released the fireball, the heat washing over the gathered warriors as the portcullis exploded. Some didn't even wait for the last flames to evaporate before charging through. Gorgoth barged through them and into the courtyard.

The sheer number of daedra made some of the guards falter; there had to be dozens of Dremora guarding the castle, along with a small legion of scamps, a handful of atronachs, and some clannfear. Gorgoth raised his hands, and lightning leapt from his fingers, dancing from daedra to daedra, blasting them in different directions and thinning the ranks within seconds. Now it was the daedra's turn to falter, and the Kvatch Guard roared as they charged. Gorgoth drew his mace and moved in.

A Dremora moved to block him, but before Gorgoth could swing, an arrow was suddenly jutting out from a gap in the daedra's breastplate. Gorgoth didn't need to turn to tell that it was Aerin; no-one else present could have made that shot; a small, moving target, while in the rain. A frost atronach lumbered up to Gorgoth and smashed its fists into his chest. The Orc took a step back and swung, a satisfying _crunch_ emanating from the atronach's skull as the blunt weapon crushed it.

Next to try their luck was a Dremora mage. He sent many small icicles homing in on Gorgoth. The Orc didn't even bother blocking, instead just blinking once as the projectiles bounced off his shielding and shattered. Snarling in frustration, the Dremora attempted to shoot some kind of illusion magic, but Gorgoth was quicker and sent destructive magic at the staff. It was too much for the natural protective magics to absorb, and the daedric steel tore itself apart. The Dremora turned to run back to the castle, but Gorgoth, once again, was faster, quickly striding forward and crushing his enemy's spine.

Ilend's last few days hadn't been particularly lucky. Firstly, his city had been almost completely destroyed by daedra, he had seen most of his men shot down with no hope of escape, and now his sword had broken. A Dremora's shield had deflected a thrust at an awkward angle, and the already battle-scarred blade had snapped off a foot from the hilt. The Imperial stood dumbly looking at the hilt as though it had done him a personal injury. "You utter piece of useless crap," he muttered softly, before throwing it into the Dremora's face. The Kynaz howled in agony as the edge of the blade caught him on his jaw, slicing it open. Before he could recover, Ilend delivered a vicious uppercut, and stepped away from the staggering Dremora. "For the love of the Divines, SOMEONE SHOOT HIM!" roared the Imperial.

Aerin and a Guard archer were only too happy to oblige, and as the Dremora fell, Ilend swooped in and grabbed his fallen enemy's sword. It was a lot heavier than his old silver-worked longsword, but the edge was keener, and he liked the look of it. However, in battle, he had no time to admire his new-found acquisition, as a clannfear seemed to want to bite his head off. Ilend sidestepped its lunge and hacked down on its exposed back, almost slicing it in half. Another hack completed the job, and the clannfear's upper body rolled into a daedroth, unbalancing the beast just as it was about to slash Savlian's stomach open. This distraction enabled Merandil to get around its back and chop its tail off. Ilend moved in to help put down the crippled daedra, which was flailing around in agony, its sense of balance shattered.

A Dremora with some sense realised that the archers were causing a lot of casualties, and went straight for Aerin. Her arrows embedded themselves deeply in his shield, and, despite being delayed, he drew ever closer until Gorgoth grabbed him using telekinesis and threw him into a spider daedra with such force that the arachnid's legs collapsed, making her easy prey for Ilend to sink his daedric blade deep into her abdomen. After much screeching and flailing, the spider daedra gave up the ghost.

The remaining daedra were swiftly dealt with, and eventually there was only a lone Dremora blocking the gate to the castle. He stood resolutely, stubbornly holding his ground with spear and shield. The guardsmen couldn't get close, and eventually Gorgoth summoned a glaive and fought him on his own terms. The Dremora, obviously the commander of the remaining troops, fought doggedly, not giving up his ground in front of the castle door.

Over the years, Gorgoth had fought many men and women in single combat, but he doubted that he'd ever attacked a defence as solid as this Dremora's. The daedra blocked everything Gorgoth threw at him with either shield or spear, and what he couldn't block, he dodged, his agility seemingly not hampered in the slightest by the heavy daedric plate. More than once, Savlian tried to intervene, attempting to get through to the castle, but the whirling polearms gave him no room, and he was forced to retreat. Most of the guards simply watched while tending to the wounded.

Gorgoth grunted as his glaive locked against the daedric steel of the Dremora's spear. He pushed with as much strength as he dared use, keeping some back to prevent himself from overbalancing should his enemy move. The Dremora was strong, but Gorgoth was much bigger and stronger. He forced his opponent back, step by step, daedric steel grinding against summoned daedric steel. The Dremora attempted to bash the warrior-shaman's head with his shield, but he was too far away for the blow to be powerful enough to break through his magics. Snarling in frustration, the Kynaz snatched his spear away, clutching it to his chest, and rolled under Gorgoth. The Orc was expected such a manoeuvre, and directed a savage kick at the Dremora's ribs. He caught him mid-roll, sending the armoured daedra flying over the courtyard, his ribs cracked. Before the Kynaz could recover, the guardsmen were on him, stabbing and slashing at him like a bloodthirsty mob. The Orsimer growled in disgust at their dishonourable method of killing and healed the wounded.

"Whoa, big guy, are you angry?" asked Aerin anxiously, peering up at the Orc as he healed a Fighter's Guild Dunmer, who'd had his leg slashed open. Gorgoth's bushy eyebrows were drawn down, and he certainly looked angry, his usual battle snarl still in place. "That's definitely the angriest-looking I've ever seen ya."

Gorgoth turned and looked down at her, sparing a glance for the guardsmen moving in to secure the castle. "Of course I'm angry," he growled. "If I wasn't suppressing it, I'd be giving them all a lesson in honour." The Orc started muttering darkly in his own tongue. Aerin didn't know a word of Orcish, but she guessed that the warrior-shaman was angry that his single combat with the Dremora had been violated. The warrior-shaman's concept of honour confused her sometimes.

Walking into the castle, she attempted to persuade the Orc that there was no time to be lost; the guardsmen didn't know if the Count was dead or not, and there could have been time to save him. Gorgoth grunted that he knew the logical argument, but that his opponent had been worthy of an honourable death. They were interrupted by Savlian walking up to them, slamming his sword into its sheath.

"We'll hold this area," he told them. "You've got to move forward and get the Count back here. He'll have retreated to his bedchamber down the hall." The Imperial pointed towards the end of the hall, and his voice hardened. "Don't come back here without him!"

"You want us to carry back his corpse?" asked Gorgoth, ever the realist. Aerin had to agree; if the castle was overrun, then the Count was almost definitely dead. The Orc didn't wait for an answer, pushing past the Imperial, Aerin hastily following at his left elbow.

The audience hall of Castle Kvatch was in ruins. The once-fine purple carpet was tattered, burnt, and bloody, not to mention decorated with the bodies of two scamps and a Dremora. Fallen stones and timbers littered the hall, and the bodies of guardsmen who had died defending the tower were piled into heaps. Fires blazed in distant corners, but they were under control; the stone floor proved resistant to fire. The bodies of daedra lay everywhere. Some had died taking the castle, and others had recently died losing it.

Gorgoth marched up some curved stairs to a ledge behind the throne. The double doors to a long hallway hung open, with two guardsmen standing guard near it, under orders to go no further. "Get your blades out," muttered Gorgoth to Aerin. "This will be no place for a bow." The Bosmer obediently put Trueshot on her back and drew her twin elven shortswords. "I'll lead. Deal with any I miss."

"Rather you lead than me," she muttered as they entered the hallway. It was clear that it had been a dining hall once, but now the massive, long table was snapped in several places, and stained with blood. Several chandeliers had crashed down from the ceiling, and fires were blazing where torches had been disturbed. Fortunately for anyone who wasn't a flame atronach, the fires were containing themselves to various cabinets strewn about the room, contained by the stone floor. Plates, jugs, and eating implements were scattered everywhere, as were the unarmoured, unrecognisable corpses of several people, obviously civilians. The smoke from the fires was escaping through several holes in the roof.

Also of note were the three flame atronachs. Two of them stepped into a fire, drawing flames from it and sending them at the two mer, while the other ran forward for close-up work. Gorgoth blocked the streams of fire magically while smashing the approaching flame atronach into the wall, his mace audibly snapping its fragile ribs. It screeched and collapsed against the wall, its fire dying. Aerin, ignoring Gorgoth's previous instruction, knelt, took out Trueshot, and shot down both flame atronachs, firing from under Gorgoth's left arm. As the arrows whizzed past him, he looked back and gave her an appreciative nod.

"Expect to be flanked," he told her. "There are several passageways leading away from this hall. Stay alert; I wouldn't want daedra gutting you just because you couldn't draw your swords in time." Aerin nodded and once more drew her shortswords. She could tell that Gorgoth wouldn't need any help going forward; the Orc was virtually a one-mer army. He proved this by calmly caving a Dremora's head in and walking through the fires instead of around them. He told her to do the same, and she complied, quite liking the warm, almost tickling nature of the flames through the fire resistance spell he'd cast on her.

"How do you know where the Count's quarters are?" asked Aerin. "Ya didn't ask Savlian, if I recall correctly."

"I'm thinking logically," replied Gorgoth, looking down at a fallen guard, his back to the passageway behind him. "This guard defended this hall with his life. He could have stepped back, but he didn't. The same is true with the other one further up." He pointed to what was left of an Imperial, only recognisable as a guard due to the helmet on his head, the rest of his body being a bloody ruin. "They'd probably have been the Count's personal guards. It's this way."

"Not bad," praised Aerin, impressed with her companion's investigative skills. "So how far away do ya reckon he is?"

Gorgoth peered at the walls as though he could see through them. "There are four daedra up ahead. Judging from their positioning, I'd say they were in a room of some kind. There's no daedra after that. Could be the Count's room." Seeing Aerin's puzzled gaze, he continued. "I can see their life forces as a physical manifestation, due to my detect life spell," he explain. "Their energies appear as a coalescing pink shroud, surrounded by their bodies. There's three Dremora and a daedroth up ahead, from what I can tell."

Stepping around the corner, they were confronted by the first two Dremora. One physically threw himself at Gorgoth, managing to pull off a flying kick in full daedric plate. Gorgoth simply grabbed his legs and slammed him into his comrade. The other Dremora snarled and attempted to struggle to his feet, but Gorgoth smashed him back down, the Dremora's head making a sound like a rotten watermelon being crushed. Before his comrade could fully recover, Gorgoth had frozen him solid, and was already moving on. Aerin couldn't resist giving the frozen Dremora, now resembling an ugly ice statue, a playful push.

The sound of shattering ice had obviously alerted the Dremora guarding the entrance to a room at the end of the corridor, for he had his sword drawn. Apon seeing Gorgoth, he made a more cautious approach than his predecessor, advancing with shield ready, yelling for the daedroth to come and help. The reptilian daedra appeared in the doorway then staggered back, having slammed his snout into the doorframe, which had been designed to be used by Imperials, not crocodile-headed daedra that were eight feet tall.

Oblivious to his ally's predicament, the Dremora launched a double attack, shield lashing out for Gorgoth's head while his sword attempted to pierce his stomach. Gorgoth shrugged off the shield and parried the thrust, putting the Dremora off balance and making it easy for Gorgoth to crush his spine. As the Kynaz fell, the daedroth finally made it through the door and slashed at the Orc, who ducked. Not giving up, the daedroth swiftly brought his arms crashing down on the Orc's back, not penetrating his shield but staggering him. As the daedroth roared in frustration, Gorgoth simply recovered, ignored the vile stench emanating from its mouth, and threw ball lightning at it. Gorgoth turned from the shattered, smoking corpse just in time to see Aerin wiping her blades on a clannfear's rough hide.

"Like ya said, big guy... flankers," she smirked, straightening and sheathing her swords.

Gorgoth merely grunted and walked into the room, ducking to get under the doorframe. The smells of smoke and death filled his nostrils, hardly for the first time in his life. Charred cabinets and burnt books were strewn across the antechamber. Gorgoth waded through them to enter the bedroom. The half-eaten body of Count Ormellius Goldwine lay on the floor. Knowing that this would be the result of their search, and never once hoping that the count would still be alive, Gorgoth took it in his stride, simply turning the body over and working the signet ring over the count's knuckle. Aerin, watching him, sighed.

"Even I knew he was dead," she muttered. "I'm guessing Savlian will take it pretty hard."

"He was a fool to assume otherwise," replied Gorgoth, handing her the signet ring. "The Dremora don't take prisoners, unless to keep them fresh for their pets back in Oblivion." He motioned at the ring that lay in Aerin's palm; too big for her fingers, and too small for his. "Put that in your pocket. I can't easily access mine under my armour."

"I wonder what'll happen to Kvatch now?" wondered Aerin as she slipped the ring into her pocket and followed Gorgoth out of the room, back into the corridor. There were dents and cracks in the doorframe where the daedroth had tried to ram its snout through it. "The city looks pretty dead, from what I saw."

"They'll be occupied for a few days, hunting down the remaining daedra," replied Gorgoth. "If they hide themselves well enough, it could be difficult to dig them out, but eventually the city will be safe again. Then the rebuilding will begin. They'll choose a new Count. In a decade or so, I doubt you'll be able to tell there was a battle here, unless they erect statues or leave other mementoes." The Orc grunted. "That's assuming we get Martin to light the Dragonfires; if we fail, all of Tamriel will look like this."

Aerin grunted. "Sounds like the sooner we get Martin back to the Priory, the better." She grimaced. "I really hope he doesn't go all high-and-mighty and priestish on us. I'd hate ta have ta drag him away from someone he's healing."

"If he wants to protect people, then the best thing he can do is come with us," said Gorgoth, walking through the fires blazing in the dining hall. "I'm pretty sure I can convince him of that."

"Would 'convincing' involve tying him up, putting him in a sack, and throwing him over your saddle to take to Weynon Priory?" asked the Wood Elf, nimbly dodging a cabinet as it collapsed, spewing cutlery as it crashed to the floor.

"Only as a last resort," grunted Gorgoth in reply. Aerin knew the Orc well enough by now to know that he wasn't joking. "And I couldn't use rope, as we don't have any. Or a sack, for that matter. Or a horse that can take both the weight of an Orc in plate armour and an Imperial in a sack." The warrior-shaman sighed. "If he's reasonable, then I'll be able to persuade him."

The guards had doused most of the fires by the time Gorgoth and Aerin made it back to the great hall. Rain was collecting in pools under holes in the roof. Savlian was standing near the throne, talking with Ilend, Menien, and a third guard who Gorgoth assumed to be the only other surviving Watch Sergeant. As the two mer approached them, Savlian looked up angrily and stomped towards them.

"Where is the Count?" he asked, his eyes and voice as hard as the stones beneath his boots. "Why is he not with you?"

Gorgoth folded his arms and stared stonily down at the Imperial. "I think you know, and always have known, that the Count is dead," he rumbled. Aerin took out the Goldwine Signet ring and handed it to the Imperial. A small drop of blood was splattered over the stone.

Savlian deflated, his shoulders slumping, the fire leaving his eyes. "I always hoped he might be alive," he mumbled. "I always hoped... a fool's hope, I guess." The guardsman sighed and lowered his voice even further. "Now what... we've lost so much..."

Gorgoth put a hand on Savlian's shoulder and drew him aside. The Imperial was starting to look morbid. "You've lost much, that is true," he muttered, keeping his voice to a low rumble. He suspected that not even Aerin with her sensitive hearing could make out any words. "But now your priority is taking care of those who remain. The others look up to you as the last authority figure remaining. Fail them, and you fail yourself and your city."

Savlian looked up at Gorgoth with incredulity. "I'm a soldier," he stammered. "I lead men into battle, not into rebuilding a city. I'm not cut out for leadership of the people."

"You inspired your men to victory today in the battle for Kvatch," growled Gorgoth. "With the right words and the right delivery, men can be inspired to do great things. They just need the leader." The Orc leaned closer to Savlian. "Who else do they have, Savlian? This task of leadership has fallen to you. Grasp your destiny with both hands." Straightening, the Orc attempted to look encouraging. "When the rest of Cyrodiil hears what's happened here, they'll send aid," he reassured. "You will not be alone. Now do your job." With a final squeeze of the Imperial's shoulder, Gorgoth had spun around and was walking out of the great hall. Aerin broke off her conversation with the Fighter's Guild members and hurried to join him.

"So, what now?" asked Aerin, pausing at the open doorway to throw on her travelling cloak. Her bow might repel water, but she didn't, and the Bosmer hated nothing more than sleeping in sodden leathers. "We look for Martin and get the fuck out of here?" She pulled her hood up to cover most of her head. The thick cloth of the cloak would do a good enough job of keeping the rain out.

"That's the plan," replied Gorgoth, walking out of the castle into the pounding rain.

* * *

"Recruitment's dropped in recent years. Can't think up a reason why," spat the Guildsman. The Nord's name was Jongar. He'd been born in Anvil, and had never even been to Skyrim. Ilend had often enjoyed the Nord's company in the local tavern, where his capacity for alcohol was well-known. Now, his iron armour was dented in several places, and blood was drying in his long blonde hair. "Still, with a few of us to put in a good word for you, you might be able to find work in Skingrad. Lots of good goblin hunting there."

"I don't want to hunt bloody goblins," growled Ilend. "Those warty green-skinned pests can chuck themselves in a lake for all I care. What I want is revenge." The Imperial's fist was unconsciously clenching and unclenching around the hilt of the daedric blade he'd taken from the fallen Dremora.

"The Guild isn't in the habit of hunting daedra," retorted Fons Llendo, a Dunmer Guildsman. Known as the least friendly man in all Kvatch, Fons had always kept himself to himself, but he had a reputation of completing contracts with excellent efficiency. His leather armour was torn in places, but his wounds had been healed by Gorgoth, and he was his usual haughty self once more. "And, personally, I couldn't find a more certain death wish than desiring revenge on Mehrunes Dagon. Such a venture would be pure idiocy."

"You tell me that the citizens of Kvatch don't deserve vengeance, Llendo," snarled Ilend, leaning in closer to the Dark Elf. The Dunmer shifted uneasily; for all his bravado, he knew the simple fact: in a fair fight, Ilend would kill him easily.

"Easy, Ilend," said Jongar in what the Nord probably thought was a soothing tone of voice. Instead, he just sounded strangulated; soothing wasn't the blunt Nord's strong point. However, the weathered hand on Ilend's shoulder would be enough to restrain the irate Imperial. "We don't need fighting within ourselves now, not with hundreds to bury, and places to rebuild."

"Rebuilding?" snorted Fons incredulously, sidling out of Ilend's reach. "What business do the Fighter's Guild have with building contracts? Leave undesirable work to the undesirables, I say." The Dunmer sniffed arrogantly. "For all I care, this city can rot; there are other places that can use my skills."

It was only Jongar's restraining hand that kept Ilend from lunging at the Dark Elf, who hurriedly stepped backwards. "Easy, Vonius," growled the Nord, pulling the guardsman back and placing a hand on his war axe. "If you want revenge, those two who helped us take Kvatch back might know something. They looked pretty determined."

Ilend nodded; Gorgoth and Aerin had been foremost in his thoughts. If Martin was going to play a part in defeating Dagon, then it would naturally help him get his revenge. "Where are they?" he asked, shrugging off Jongar.

"They just left the castle," pointed out a nearby guard. Ilend didn't stop to verify this information; he wasn't about to be left behind. But first, there was one thing he had to do. He walked up to Savlian Matius, who was slumped in the throne, seeming drained.

"Savlian, it has truly been a great honour to serve under you," started Ilend. Savlian looked up with a dull look in his eyes. He had to know what was coming. "Without your inspirational leadership, we would have run around like headless chickens. You should be proud of yourself. I know that you'll do your best to help Kvatch now, just as you always did." Savlian grunted in response. Ilend continued, starting to remove his sword belt. "And it pains me that I won't be here to see you rebuild Kvatch," he muttered, removing his wolfshead-embroidered surcoat, leaving him in his standard-issue heavy chainmail armour. Refastening his sword belt, Ilend draped his bloodied surcoat over the arm of the throne.

"It is with regret that I resign from the Kvatch Guard, but I cannot sit here and rebuild while others exact their vengeance for what happened here today," explained the Imperial. He drew himself up, clicked his heels, and delivered a perfect salute, fist on heart. "Honour to serve," he muttered, before relaxing and turning away.

"Wait." That single word from his ex-guard captain was enough to halt Ilend in his tracks. He turned back to the throne, from which Savlian was slowly rising, his eyes looking a bit less dull. "I respect your decision, Ilend." Savlian's voice was weary, but had an undercurrent of pride. "Each and every single one of you has gone above and beyond the call of duty, especially you and Menien, and the others I sent into that Gate. You have earnt the right to do what you wish." Savlian reached out and clasped Ilend's shoulder. "I wish you luck," he said, a smile creeping onto his face. "Now go and avenge our city."

Ilend felt a smile of his own spreading over his face as he momentarily grasped Savlian's shoulder. "It's been a pleasure," he muttered. He released his old friend's shoulder and turned away, not looking back, refastening his sword belt around his waist. As he stepped out into the rain, Ilend Vonius was no longer a Watch Sergeant in the Kvatch Town Guard. He was a man determined to avenge his ravaged city, whatever the cost.

The Imperial caught sight of his targets up ahead, crossing the Statue Plaza. They were impossible to miss, even in the rain; the hulking outline of the massive Orc made the cloaked Bosmer beside him look even smaller, so small that she might even be mistaken for a child at a distance. Ilend smirked and ran after them, chainmail clinking, ignoring the rain blurring his vision. He caught up with them just as they reached the doors to the chapel.

"So, you were looking for Martin?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Ilend knew that, if he was the one charged with bringing Martin to safety, he would be suspicious of anyone just turning up and offering to help.

"What's it to ya?" asked the Wood Elf, regarding him critically from within her hood.

"Have either of you ever seen Martin?" asked Ilend. Both of them shook their heads. "Well, I know him quite well. Not only can I help you find him, I can help you persuade him. That, and I want revenge for... for this." He angrily gestured to the shattered ruins of Kvatch surrounding them.

"Vengeance is a good driving force, as long as it is not strong enough to overpower sense," rumbled Gorgoth, who was unusually philosophical for his race. "Time is of great importance at any given moment; even more so in our present situation." The Orc turned and opened the doors to the chapel. "Come, Ilend. Martin will be down in the refugee camp."

Aerin smirked as they followed the Orc through the chapel and across the entrance plaza. "It's good to be able to talk ta someone who isn't an emotionally suppressed Orc," she grinned, flashing her perfect teeth at Ilend.

The Imperial grunted in response. Despite most of her body being hidden under her cloak, she was still good to look at, which he hadn't been able to fully appreciate earlier. "It's good to be able to talk to someone normally after these last few days," he replied. "It'll be good to get out of here, get away from the memories. Good thing I don't have anything tying me here."

"No parents, friends, lovers?" queried Aerin. "You can just up and leave? Nice freedom."

"My parents are buried in Skingrad, where I was born," sighed Ilend. "Most of my friends are dead. And my ex-lover is probably dead as well. She lived near the Arena."

Aerin grimaced. "I'm sorry," she muttered, reaching up to awkwardly pat his shoulder.

"Don't be, she was a bitch," growled Ilend. "Great legs, though. And most of my friends were in the Guard. They died well, doing their duty. I'll miss them, but I had few. I'm proud of all of them. May their souls find peace wherever they go." The Imperial bowed his head to each pile of corpses lining the plaza. They had to step around the bodies of daedra slain earlier in the retaking of Kvatch. The stench of death and of burnt buildings lay thickly everywhere in Kvatch. "Mostly, I'm just trying to forget them. Honour the dead and move on. I don't have time to mourn when there's revenge to be had." Ilend shook his head in frustration. He knew he'd never be able to forget these few days of hell. They would likely visit him for many years in his nightmares. But in his waking moments, when he had something to focus his energies on, he could at least push the memories back to some dark corner of his head.

Gorgoth had stopped at the mountain's edge outside Kvatch. With one foot resting on a rock, the Orc was looking down at the refugee camp, which had grown and was now sprawling to the edges of the forest. "Kvatch still lives," was all the warrior-shaman said, gesturing down at the homeless refugees milling around below.

"You can destroy the city, but you can never destroy Kvatch while its people still live," growled Ilend in agreement.

At that moment, the rain eased, and gradually reduced in volume until it stopped completely. A small ray of sunlight peeked through the oppressing black clouds, shining down on part of the refugee camp. "A more superstitious person than me would see some kind of omen in that," observed Aerin, shrugging off her sodden cloak. Looking around, she noted that both Gorgoth's horse and Firebrand were missing from where they had been tied to a barricade. "Hey, who stole our horses?" she asked, looking around as though half expecting to find her steed hiding behind a nearby rock.

"When the civilians from the chapel came down the mountain, they took the horses with them," explained Ilend. "They'll be down in the camp somewhere. Not too many horses survived; it'll be easy enough to find them." The clouds passed over the sun, and the camp was once again shrouded in shadow. Aerin grunted and led the way down to the camp, muttering something about horse thieves and common courtesy.

"If I know Martin, he'll most likely be out helping people who need it, refusing to rest until he's sure that he can't help anyone else," reported Ilend. "That man redefines dedication to the needy at times like this."

"Well, it's a big camp," observed Gorgoth as they entered the body of the camp. "Are we likely to find Martin before dusk? I'd prefer to set off as soon as possible, and preferably while it's still light."

"You can tell that there's a difference?" asked Aerin, squinting up at the dark black clouds. There were occasional gaps where sunlight shone through, but otherwise the sky was as dark as midnight from horizon to horizon.

Ilend collared a nearby Redguard and asked where the wounded were being treated. After being given directions, he motioned for Gorgoth and Aerin to follow him. "He'll almost definitely be helping with the wounded," he explained. "He's one of the best healers in the city, and probably one of the most powerful mages overall, not that I'd know much about that."

"You'd know more than most," grunted Gorgoth as they made their way through the maze of tents, bedrolls, and salvage. "Most people have no magical aptitude at all. You, at least, have some crude methods of using your tiny pool. With training to make your spells more efficient, you could put a lot of magic to good use."

Ilend nodded. "I found that my detect life spell came in handy on several occasions, even though I could only maintain it for a few seconds."

"It would," agreed Gorgoth. "Detecting life is one of the most useful spells around, especially if you develop it enough. I can see how it would be invaluable for a guard." He studied Ilend as they walked through the camp. "If you improve your spell efficiency so that they don't drain your magicka as much, you could maintain it for longer. It's too bad that nothing can be done about your puny magicka reserves."

"It could be worse," grunted Aerin, frustration evident in her voice. "You could have been born without any magical aptitude whatsoever. Damn, I feel weak sometimes."

Gorgoth looked down at her. "You should take comfort in the fact that you're the only one for miles around that has the ability to kill me within seconds," he grunted. "You know that Trueshot can penetrate both my strongest shield spell and my armour. Its penetration would be limited only be the length of the arrow, but it would still be long enough to pierce my heart."

Aerin brightened slightly. "Heh, at least I can succeed where whole armies can fail," she laughed, nudging Gorgoth in the ribs. "How long until we reach Martin?" she asked Ilend, who was turning his head in both directions, incessantly looking for the priest. "This camp seems pretty big. I got lost in the Waterfront a few times, and I'd rather not repeat the experience." A refugee camp might not be as bad as the Waterfront, but Aerin preferred to always know where she was. A reliable escape route was always a good thing.

"There he is," replied Ilend, locating the priest and pointing at him. Martin was bending over a citizen of Kvatch, healing the Breton's broken arm. He had a look of exhaustion ingrained in his rugged features. Doubtless, he hadn't got much sleep, if any, over the last few days. Gorgoth, who was the only one of the three to have seen the Emperor up close before his death, recognised him instantly as the old man's son; he'd inherited a lot of his father's features. His deep blue eyes, well-formed face, and thick shoulder-length hair were all reminiscent of Uriel. At the moment, Martin didn't look like royalty; his simple robe was tattered and stained with blood.

"It's good to see you alive, Ilend," commented Martin as the three approached him. His voice was very rich, doubtless another thing inherited from his father. The Imperial's grimace highlighted the few wrinkles that he'd obtained through ageing. Gorgoth had expected the son of an eighty-seven year old Emperor to be older, but he was confronted with the sight of a man in his prime, not more than seven or eight years older than Gorgoth himself. "I guess it's good to see anyone alive after a battle like that," continued Martin, lowering his voice. Shaking his head, the unknowing heir to the throne of Tamriel turned to Gorgoth. "I heard about how you closed the Gate, and how you drove the daedra back. That is no simple feat."

Gorgoth grunted. "To attribute the closing of the gate and the winning of the battle to me alone would dishonour those who fought by my side," he rumbled. "I could not have retaken the city singlehandedly."

"Of course it would be wrong to gloss over the heroics of others," agreed Martin. "But you were the spearhead; you were the one who inspired the Guard to victory."

"I didn't inspire, Martin," retorted Gorgoth. "I have inspired men to victory before, but not here. Savlian Matius did the inspiring. I simply blasted open the defences."

"Hey, don't you be ignoring the little people," growled Aerin, shaking an accusatory finger at Martin. Ilend sniggered at her comment; she was dwarfed by all three men. Aerin ignored him. "Everyone did their job, and so what if some jobs were bigger than others? The victory belongs to the people of Kvatch, not some great lumbering warrior-shaman out of Orsinium."

Martin sighed and rubbed his eyes. "It's been a long few days," he mumbled. "What do you want with me? You obviously don't need a healer. Do you want a priest? I'm not sure how much I can help, if you want a priest." He looked up at them, wearing a haunted expression. "I prayed to Akatosh all through that terrible night, for help and deliverance. No help came. People died in their hundreds. What kind of Divine would let that happen?"

Gorgoth snorted. "Why rely on the Divines to help you out?" he asked. "People should help themselves. Relying on the Gods to help is a sign of weakness, of not being able to stand on your own two feet."

Ilend glared at Gorgoth, attempting to communicate that he wasn't helping the situation, and patted Martin on the shoulder. "You did what you could, Martin," he reassured the downcast priest. "You rounded up everyone you could find and took them to safety. You did what you could."

"Shouldn't we hurry up with what we're here to do?" Aerin asked Gorgoth. She was right; the clock was ticking. Any moment wasted was another moment where the barriers between Nirn and Oblivion weakened.

Gorgoth nodded. "Martin, your father was Emperor Uriel Septim," he said. "You're his only surviving child, the last of the Dragon Blood. He sent me to find you before he died."

Martin's head had snapped round, and he wore a stupefied expression. "No, you've got it wrong," he insisted. "My father was a farmer. I'm not..." his voice trailed off.

"Why do you think this particular city was attacked?" pressed Gorgoth. "Mehrunes Dagon is invading Tamriel. When no Dragon Blood wears the Amulet of Kings, Nirn is open to invasion. This was an assassination attempt, nothing more."

Ilend was nodding in agreement. "He's right, Martin. Those two robed agents outside the chapel were scouting you out. I heard them mention Uriel's bastard."

Martin closed his eyes, and appeared to be thinking, leaning on a nearby tree stump. "An entire city destroyed to get at me..." he whispered. His eyes opened, and he stared up at Gorgoth. "Because I'm the Emperor's son?"

Gorgoth nodded, his face unreadable and expressionless as usual.

Martin turned and leaned on a tent post, his shoulders slumping and he took in the enormity of this revelation. Gorgoth guessed that it wasn't easy to suddenly learn that you were the secret bastard son of an assassinated Emperor, and so had inherited a vast empire. Martin had probably assumed that his quiet, simple life as a priest would continue into the distant future, and would have no idea of how to run an empire. Aerin took the opportunity provided by the lapse in conversation to reach up and whisper in Gorgoth's ear: "His voice is incredible." The Orc looked at her with a slightly raised eyebrow, and she burst into giggles, a sound which seemed to revive Martin.

"I can't stay here," he said, a hint of determination entering his voice. "The enemy will just send more of his forces after me. I'm a danger to all here." The Imperial sighed. "But where do I go?" he asked.

"Come with us to Weynon Priory," instructed Gorgoth. "You'll be safe enough there. The Amulet of Kings is waiting there for you to light the Dragonfires and prevent this from happening again." The Orc waved his arm around him, gesturing at the refugee camp.

Martin thought for a moment before nodding. "Yes, I'll come with you to Weynon Priory," he agreed. "It doesn't look like there's much else I can do."

It didn't take long to find the only horses in the camp; Gorgoth's exhausted paint horse, Aerin's Firebrand, a handful of chestnuts, and a couple of black stallions that seemed very angry at something. Gorgoth ignored his own paint horse and started untying one of the chestnuts.

"Is that your horse?" asked Ilend suspiciously, eyes narrowing in disapproval despite no longer being a guard, and therefore not obliged to uphold the law. Gorgoth shook his head. "You'd steal from people when their entire city has been destroyed?"

"Our need is greater than theirs," refuted Gorgoth, handing the reins of a chestnut to Martin and nodding for Ilend to take a similar horse. The Imperial didn't budge. "They won't need horses for rebuilding a settlement. We will need horses to get the heir to the throne to Weynon Priory quickly. Unless you want to walk?"

Ilend growled in frustration and started roughly untying the nearest horse to him. Gorgoth walked slowly over to one of the black stallions. They were similar to the horses he had ridden back home, only smaller and bred more for speed than strength and stamina. At least it'd be able to take his weight. However, the horse, obviously on edge, didn't give any indication of wanting to go quietly until Gorgoth grabbed its head and glared into its eyes. His gaze carried so much threat and malice that the horse instantly grew very still, barely moving as the Orc untied it and mounted.

"Seems you know your way around horses, big guy," observed Aerin, who had long since mounted the impatient Firebrand.

"In battle, you have to trust your mount and it's training," growled Gorgoth, heeling his horse forwards down the road leading to the Gold Road. "Let's ride. The sooner we get to Weynon Priory, the better." The others fell in behind him as he spurred his stolen horse to a gallop.

* * *

**A/N: Since you've read this latest chapter, I assume you've read the whole damn story so far. If that's the case, then the least you can do is leave a review telling me how to improve. Even some encouragement would be helpful. It's only a few minutes of your life, now click that button and review.**


	12. Hope Rekindled

**A/N: I apologise for the slow update. I had a horrific bout of writer's block when writing this, and that combined with college work slows updates a lot. However, it seems that my ranting last chapter got people's attention, so thanks to all of you who reviewed (especially my regulars, Arty Thrip and the Underpaid Critic).**

**Lost Proph3t: That doesn't seem like a terrible review to me... at least it offers encouragement. While I stated that there would be no romance involving Gorgoth, I didn't say that there would simply be no romance whatsoever... however, I'm well aware of my romance-writing deficiencies, so we'll just have to see where this goes.**

**Godlybunny: Gorgoth is very powerful, yes, and he lacks obvious weaknesses, yes, but there's a reason for that: he actively seeks out and destroys every single weakness he can find within himself, so you'd expect him to be pretty inpenetrable. His price (if you can call it that) is an almost total lack of personailty (and possibly other things introduced later).**

**I think I've covered everything. Keep it up with the reviews, people.**

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: Hope Rekindled**

The clouds thinned as the group made their way east, and eventually the sun shone briefly through the haze before sinking below the horizon. Gorgoth pushed on relentlessly, ignoring both Aerin's complaints and the obvious exhaustion of Ilend and Martin. The two Imperials had managed a few hours sleep in the past few days, and were physically unprepared for Gorgoth's pace. Eventually, after many hours of hard riding under Masser and Secunda, the Orc recognised that they could take no more and ordered a halt.

Gorgoth located a suitable campsite in a small hollow just off the Gold Road and, apon dismounting, told Aerin to go and shoot something for them to eat. When the Bosmer protested, claiming that she was too tired, Gorgoth merely pointed to the two Imperials, who had found the nearest patch of grass that could serve as a bed and fallen asleep. Ilend hadn't even removed his bloodstained chainmail. Aerin got the point and went off to shoot dinner. Gorgoth busied himself with settling the horses and removing what little food there was in the saddlebags. He'd been pleasantly surprised to see that all the horses were good ones, and would serve them well if speed was needed.

After draping blankets over the two sleeping Imperials, Gorgoth quietly removed his armour, then sat down with his back to a wide tree and cast a detect life spell. It would last for as long as he maintained it, and if any living thing came within bowshot of the camp, he would know. The Orc could even detect the badger sleeping in its sett under a thicket not far off. Gnawing on a tough apple, Gorgoth took his wallet out of his trouser pocket and drew out a ring. It was a large gold signet ring, made to fit the finger of a large Orc. The dark red stone was carved with an armoured fist clenching a mace. After looking at the ring intently for a while, Gorgoth shoved it back into his wallet, wishing that the Imperials could have taken that blasted ring instead of his mace. However, Gorgoth had never regretted anything in his life, deeming it a waste of time.

When Aerin arrived back with a deer slung over her shoulders, Gorgoth warned her not to wake the others and instructed her to skin it and prepare the meat for cooking the next morning.

"What am I, your slave?" she hissed at him, dumping the deer onto the ground at his feet. A bloody puncture showed where her arrow had taken it, right in the neck. "I ain't seen _you_ do much since we got here."

Gorgoth regarded her stonily. "You're a hunter, I'm not," he replied. "I am not omnipotent. If I attempted to skin that, it would end up as an unrecognisable mess, which I'm pretty sure you would not want to eat."

Aerin scoffed, but the Orc's logic was undeniable. She took out a thick hunting knife and started to skin her kill with the expert dexterity of a natural hunter. Gorgoth removed his accumulated fatigue using magicka. Normally, his immense constitution let him skip entire nights of sleep, but he felt it best to be at his sharpest; he would be keeping watch the entire night. "Rather you than me," grunted Aerin when he informed her of his intentions. He'd expected such a response.

The Bosmer finished skinning the deer, and, with Gorgoth's help, hung it from a tree using a short length of rope that Gorgoth had found in his stallion's saddlebags. With that done, Aerin promptly grabbed a blanket from her saddlebags and lay down at the foot of a tree. She was asleep within minutes, leaving Gorgoth alone, with nothing but the regular breathing of his companions, the cries of nocturnal animals, and his own thoughts for company.

Gorgoth had endured the long boredom of guard duty many times before, and the monotony was nothing new. He could endure it. However, the Orc had developed a good means of combating the tedium without neglecting his duties, and now was the time to put it to good use. He raised his hand and summoned a Dremora.

A swirling orange portal coalesced in the air near the tree Gorgoth was sitting against, and before it faded a Dremora stepped out. Like every fighting Kynaz, he wore daedric plate armour. A katana was strapped to his back. Looking around for danger, and locating none, he stomped over to Gorgoth, a weary expression on his face. "Why have you summoned me, Gorgoth?" he asked, his voice harsh and grating. "When am I actually going to be summoned for a purpose other than the relief of the boredom of a mortal?"

"Be at peace, Xilinkar," soothed Gorgoth, motioning for his summoned Dremora to take a seat against another nearby tree. "I know that you welcome the escape from the mundane goings-on of your realm for a good talk. What was happening when I called you?"

Xilinkar sighed, a sound reminiscent of a cutting wind sweeping through a dead valley, and sat with his back against the tree, facing Gorgoth. He removed his sheathed katana from his back and replied. "I was observing two Churls training." The Dremora's snarl clearly expressed what he thought of their efforts.

"See? I saved you from one boredom and brought you to another. I have a few questions."

"Don't you always?" growled Xilinkar, sweeping his gaze over Gorgoth's sleeping companions with an expression of loathing and contempt. "Why do you insist on gallivanting around with these weak mortals?"

"These 'weak mortals' just helped retake Kvatch from your Lord Dagon," commented Gorgoth, watching his daedric companion carefully for his reaction.

Xilinkar eyed Gorgoth suspiciously. The Orc was too honourable to ask the Dremora to betray the plans of his lord, but that didn't mean he wouldn't try to glean some information from idle conversation. "I was not involved in that," he grunted. "I blame the mortals who were working for us. Pathetic worms."

"Underestimation is the downfall of all daedra, Xilinkar," sighed Gorgoth. "You are so steeped in your own arrogance that you fail to see the pitfall waiting for you."

"You said you had some questions?" snarled Xilinkar, obviously taking a dislike to Gorgoth's comments. "I haven't come here to sit around and hear you insult the Kyn."

"No, you came because you were called. Where is Kathutet? I tried to summon him a few days ago, but it didn't work. He's much better for conversation."

At the mention of the name of his Kynsman, Xilinkar smirked. "Oh, I don't think you'll be summoning him for a while," he sniggered. "He's serving as a welcome mat. I'm not saying any more than that, but I doubt he's in a good mood right now." His comrade's predicament seemed to cause Xilinkar much glee, and his harsh laughter echoed around the hollow.

"Keep your voice down," muttered Gorgoth, making a hushing motion with his huge hands. Fortunately, his companions were too deeply asleep for the sound to have woken them. "Do you want me to get Medraka here?" he asked threateningly, raising his right hand as though to summon the Xivilai.

"No!" muttered Xilinkar emphatically. "The last thing I want is to listen to you two talking about meaningless crap until Dagon invades all Tamriel." Aerin shifted in her sleep, drawing the eyes of both Orc and Dremora, but she merely muttered something inaudible and turned over. "Now that is a fine-looking one, even by mortal standards," muttered Xilinkar, leaning forward, his dark red tongue licking his even darker lips.

"Control yourself, Xilinkar," warned Gorgoth. "I would hate to have to kill one of my summoned Dremora. You've given good service over the years."

The Dremora grunted and leaned back against the tree. "Fine. I'll wait for what the spoils of war bring me." He tapped his fingers against his thigh, the gauntlets making an annoying clanging noise on his plate armour. "Is there any point in me remaining here?"

Gorgoth sighed and shook his head, dispelling the magics that tied the Dremora to Nirn. An orange light enveloped the Dremora, then faded, taking Xilinkar back to Oblivion. There was no sign that the Kynaz had ever been present in the camp; the deep imprints his boots had made in the grass could have been made by Gorgoth or Ilend. The Orc settled down for the long night, keeping watch over his sleeping companions, occasionally shifting positions to prevent cramp.

The tip of the sun was peeking over the horizon and beams of sunlight were reaching through gaps in the trees and draping themselves over the camp when Gorgoth shook Aerin awake. He instructed her to keep quiet; he sensed that the two Imperials needed more rest than the two mer did. Utilising a very refined version of Gorgoth's soundproofing spell, they managed to cook the entire deer without waking Ilend or Martin.

A combination of the rich smell of venison permeating the air and the increasingly intrusive sun's rays woke the two Imperials. Ilend proceeded to remove his battered chainmail armour, revealing an undershirt and trousers stained with dried blood and sweat. Aerin turned her nose up at the smell of the unwashed, battle-stained Imperial and shifted closer to the fire.

Martin, after a lengthy awakening, was bombarding Gorgoth with questions about Weynon Priory, his father, and just about everything else relevant to their present situation. The Orc answered the heir's questions the best he could, while tearing into the venison like a starving animal. If Martin was put off by the deer blood trickling down Gorgoth's chin, he didn't show it. Ilend staggered back from the nearby stream, hair dripping, and quietly attacked the deer while muttering something about needing a shave.

With characteristic relentlessness, five minutes later Gorgoth had everyone getting ready to move out. "We sleep in Skingrad tonight," he rumbled, patting his horse. The stallion seemed to have calmed down after yesterday's hard ride. It was hard to tell whether it was fatigue or the memory of Gorgoth's intimidation. "Sleeping in a tavern is a lot more secure than sleeping out here. Much easier to guard."

"You would say that, big guy," muttered Aerin, rolling her eyes as she adjusted Firebrand's saddle. She leaned closer to Ilend, who was feeding an apple to his own horse while running a hand through his long, unkempt hair in a pathetic attempt to comb it into some semblance of neatness. "In a dictionary, look up 'pragmatic', and it'll direct ya to Gorgoth gro-Kharz," she told the Imperial, who snorted with laughter.

"At least we can trust him not to let his guard down," replied Ilend, who had donned his chainmail. "Means less work for us." A broad smile lit up the Imperial's face. "I'm looking forward to having a good ale in the West Weald Inn. Best food and drink in the West Weald, and the tavern fire's always welcoming." The ex-guard leaned back against his horse and let out a relaxed sigh, seeming at ease for the first time in days. "It'll be good to get back to something approaching normal."

Aerin grinned. "I used to work as a dancer in one of the less rough taverns in the Waterfront," she informed him, leaning beside him against his horse's flanks. "I lasted six weeks. The bartender said I was too provocative. I guess I did almost cause a riot once." The Bosmer smirked at the memory. "My father was furious when he found out." Aerin giggled. "Wonder what he said when he learnt from his business partners that his daughter had joined the Arena?"

Ilend laughed, then appeared to realise something. "What day is it?" he asked, his brow furrowing as he struggled to remember something as simple as the date; his sense of time had been destroyed by Oblivion.

Aerin thought for a moment. "I think it's a Middas, the ninth of Hearthfire," she muttered, scratching her head. "Why?"

The Imperial sighed. "Yesterday was my birthday," he grunted. "Killing Dremora who scourged your city isn't exactly the way you'd expect to be celebrating your twenty-fifth birthday."

Aerin reached up and patted his shoulder. "At least you actually lived to see twenty-five," she told him in what she hoped was a comforting manner. "Better ta be alive than dead, eh?" She would have continued if a certain black stallion hadn't stopped mere inches from her face.

"Mount up," growled Gorgoth, glaring down at Aerin from his saddle, grass crunching under his horse's hooves. "We've wasted too much time sleeping already. I plan to be in Skingrad by dusk."

"At the very least, it'll be good to sleep in an actual bed," sighed Martin, also mounted. He was evidently still exhausted, slumped in his saddle like a sack of potatoes with dark circles under his eyes. His hair was bedraggled and lank, much like Ilend's, and rough stubble covered his lower face. He appeared to lack the ability to wash his fatigue away magically. Or maybe he just couldn't remember how due to exhaustion.

Gorgoth led the party back onto the Gold Road and set off at his usual demanding pace. They passed several wagon trains and Imperial Legion detachments on the way, evidently going to the aid of Kvatch. "I told him help would come," muttered Gorgoth to himself, recalling the pep talk he gave to Savlian Matius. Several people on the wagons appeared to want to talk to the group coming from Kvatch, but Gorgoth allowed no stopping. As they passed the bountiful farmlands and rolling hills of the West Weald, the breadbasket of Cyrodiil, the sun rose and fell from horizon to horizon.

As the sun sank behind the horizon behind them, Skingrad came into view. The main gates still stood open despite the encroaching night, allowing the only access to the walled city. The Twin Crescents flapped gently in the soft breeze from their vantage point on the massive Castle Skingrad, located on a hill separate from the main city and only accessible by bridge. Apparently, Count Janus Hassildor wasn't appreciative of personal visitors.

They stabled the horses at the Grateful Pass Stables, Gorgoth noting with satisfaction that the Orc stablemaster seemed to have no inclination to eat horses. She had recommended the Two Sister's Lodge, owned by her sister, but at Ilend's insistence they instead headed to the West Weald Inn. The streets of Skingrad were still busy, with the population heading home from work or heading out to the pubs to get blind drunk. Gorgoth was once again impressed with the quality of the stonework shown in the buildings and walls; these Cyrodillics certainly knew how to build a city. However, there was little time to explore Skingrad; the Inn was very near to the west gate.

Ilend swung both doors wide open and they entered the tavern. They were instantly immersed in the friendly atmosphere that permeates every good inn. Evidently, the West Weald Inn mostly served travellers staying overnight, as the patrons were too diverse to simply be Skingraders drinking after a hard day's work. About half the tables were filled, with patrons varying from two mail-clad Orcs to an angry-looking, finely-dressed Dunmer. The setting sun threw long, fading pokers of fire over the room. Ilend, with an air of familiarity, led the way over to the bar, where the innkeeper, a middle-aged Imperial, was leaning, watching the new arrivals and seemingly weighing up the gold in their wallets before they had even reached her.

"Long time, no see, Erina," greeted Ilend, leaning on the bar and smiling at the innkeeper. A slight upturn of her lips in response might be taken for a smile.

"Good to see you and your wallet again, Ilend," she replied. "I hope you plan to drink as much as you did last time?" Without waiting for her answer, she swept her analytical gaze over the ex-guardsman's companions, weighing them individually. "Will you be wanting rooms?" she asked, her voice dry and businesslike. The fine cut and cloth of her clothes indicated that her inn had seen long periods of success.

"How big is your biggest room?" asked Gorgoth, attempting to lean on the bar but finding that it was too low for him to comfortably rest his arm on. He settled for standing up straight with arms folded. His head brushed the ceiling beams.

"Two single beds with a separate sitting room, both fairly big," replied Erina briskly. "That one's twenty for the night. The other rooms are-" Gorgoth cut her off.

"We'll take that one," he rumbled, digging out his wallet. "All of us." Observing the shocked expressions of not only Erina but all three of his companions, he continued. "It's a lot easier to defend a single room." The Orc counted out twenty septims and slid them over to Erina. Shaking her head and muttering in disbelief, the innkeeper gathered the coins with practised speed and put them somewhere under the counter.

"When you're ready to go up to your room, it's up the stairs, second one on the right," she told them, jerking her head towards a staircase near the back of the inn. "For now, take a seat, and try not to break anything." That last comment was clearly directed at Gorgoth, the seven foot tall, heavily armoured, powerfully-built Orc clearly being the most likely to break a chair simply by sitting on it. Gorgoth ignored her and led the way to a fairly large table near the back of the inn. It was the furthest table from the door. The massive warrior-shaman lowered himself slowly into the chair that faced the door. With various creaks and groans, the chair held, and Gorgoth relaxed, as much as he ever did.

"Hey, big guy, in the interests of chair health, why don't ya leave your armour in our room?" asked Aerin, taking a seat nearest to the staircase, which was nearby.

"Two good reasons, Aerin," rumbled Gorgoth as Ilend and Martin took their seats. Ilend's chair creaked, but the Imperial and his chainmail weighed a lot less than Gorgoth and his plate armour. "I want to be ready for anything that might happen, even if it probably won't come to pass. It's always best to be on your guard." The Orc leaned back in his chair, ignoring its squeal of protest. "Also, it could be stolen. I'd rather not have to rely on magical armour."

"Thought you might say that," muttered Aerin, looking around the inn with an inquisitive look on her face. "This place got any decent food? I could use something to eat that I don't have ta shoot myself."

"Need you ask?" asked Ilend, gesturing towards the mounds of food sitting on some other tables. "I'll get us something. Gorgoth, your wallet, please. Mine's back in Kvatch." The Orc grunted and removed something from his enchanted wallet before handing it over to Ilend.

"I'll have an unlimited supply of beer with it," he informed Ilend, who nodded, almost as though he'd been expecting something of the sort. The Imperial walked over to the bar.

"So, when's our estimated time of arrival at Weynon Priory?" asked Martin, who was leaning forward, elbows on the table, the posture of a man hungry for both food and information. He clearly wanted to get to safety as quickly as possible, or he might simply want to have more than four hours of sleep per night.

"With these fast horses, two days at the most," replied Gorgoth. "It'll be hard on the horses, but with my restorative magics, they can handle it." The Orc regarded Martin critically. "What about you, priest? Can you handle a few hours of sleep a night?"

"No. I'm a priest, not a soldier," grumbled Martin. "But at least I do happen to know how to remove my exhaustion using magicka. That way, I guess I could handle it, but as you know, magic is no replacement for actual sleep." Gorgoth nodded in agreement.

"Why didn't you do that when you woke up?" Aerin's question had a point.

"Because I was too tired. If I'd attempted to cast it then, I might have ended up freezing myself or something." Martin sighed and leaned back. "Magic can be very fickle at very inopportune moments."

"You're right," agreed Gorgoth as Ilend returned, chucking Gorgoth his lightened wallet and sitting down. The Orc didn't particularly care if the ex-guardsman had been too free with his money; he had plenty back in Orsinium, and no real need for it now that he had everything he required. "I seem to remember a few incidents like that when the shamans were training me. They can be overcome with a strong will that resist any adversity."

"We don't all have your mental superiority, big guy," muttered Aerin, looking suspiciously at the dark brown liquid that passed for ale in Skingrad. "Ilend, didn't they have any water or something?"

"This is an inn," snorted Ilend, burying his face in his own pint. After a long few swigs, he lowered his now half-empty glass. "In the West Weald Inn, you have a _drink_, not some rotting sewage water." He wiped the ale from his chin with the back of his gauntlet, then removed both gauntlets and laid them on the table, all the while shaking his head in disbelief. "Imagine going to a pub of any kind and not having a proper drink," he muttered to himself.

"Hey, we ain't all soldiers, ya know," retorted Aerin. "Not all of us want ta be swimming with booze every time we dive into a pub." Looking for support, she turned to Martin, only to find that the priest had already drained his pint.

"Needed that," grunted Martin, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. "I'm a priest, Aerin, not a teetotal," he told the Bosmer apon noting her shocked expression.

Aerin shrugged and took a swig of her own ale. She grimaced at the taste, but she was thirsty and it seemed that Ilend wasn't about to get her another drink. Beside her, Gorgoth was already looking for his third pint.

It was fortunate that their meals arrived before Gorgoth drank the place dry. For the next hour or so, most conversation ceased as they relentlessly attacked the beef stew that apparently came from cows slaughtered just yesterday. It at least managed to blunt the edge of hunger that came from eating little over days of exertion. The sun set and patrons slowly dispersed, either to their rooms upstairs or out to Skingrad for whatever reason. The four companions and their plates, piled high, were left alone by the rest of the patrons, who were probably deterred by Gorgoth's grim outward appearance and the dried blood that still stained Ilend's chainmail.

Gorgoth noticed Martin's drooping eyelids and correctly deduced that the priest needed sleep. The Orc couldn't blame the Imperial; he was no soldier, accustomed to short nights and days of fighting. "Come on, Martin," he growled, standing. "You'll need sleep over the coming days. Let's head up to the room. I'll assess the defences." Aerin rolled her eyes at the Orc's last comment as he and Martin headed up the staircase, leaving her alone with Ilend, who was scratching irritably at the blood on his armour, apparently noticing it for the first time.

One of the few remaining patrons walked over to their table. She was a fairly tall Nord woman, with short hair and a bluff exterior like most Nords. The most distinguishing feature was the sword at her hip; she moved liked she knew how to use it. "Excuse me," she started, leaning on the table, facing Ilend. "Have you come from Kvatch?" Not waiting for an answer, she continued. "What exactly happened there? I have family there, you see, and..." she let her voice trail off.

If Ilend and Aerin hadn't imbibed significant quantities of alcohol, their more alert brains might have picked up the danger, or the excited undercurrent of the woman's voice. As it was, neither of them were drunk, but their senses were slowed. "A bloody travesty," sighed Ilend, looking up at her with regretful eyes. "Daedra invaded. Burnt the whole city, near enough." He grimaced at the shocked expression on the Nord's face. "Not to worry, though," he soothed. "Plenty of folks made it out. I'm sure your family is safe."

"I hope so," murmured the Nord, lowering herself slowly into a seat. "I'm Else God-hater. Don't dwell on that right now, please. Was that Martin I saw with you?"

Aerin nodded. "Yeah, that was Martin. A Priest of Akatosh. Not that'd you' want a priest with a name like that, though." Something occurred to Aerin, something dangerous. As her alcohol-dimmed mind fumbled for the coherent thought, she dimly saw the Nord nod, seemingly in satisfaction, and reach beneath the table. "What...?" That was as far as Aerin got. Else snatched out a concealed steel dagger and plunged it into the Bosmer's gut.

As Aerin's eyes widened, and she fell off her chair sideways, hitting the floor with a muted _thud_, Ilend roared with rage and threw the table at the murderous Nord, who'd stepped back to draw her sword. She ducked under the table, dodged the flying plates and empty glasses, and emerged covered in sparks as armour suddenly appeared on her, covering her from head to toe. Ilend had seen it before, being used by the human agents who supported Dagon. As the other patrons cowered and ran for cover, Ilend drew his own sword, just in time to parry Else's strike.

The Nord spun quickly and launched another attack, her sword streaking towards Ilend's throat like a viper. The Imperial's shield had been leaning against the table legs, and to reach for it now would be suicide. His borrowed Daedric blade turned aside Else's steel broadsword mere inches from his neck. Ilend pushed forward and attempted to cleave the agent's head in two. However, Else was known in Skingrad as a skilled swordswoman, and she was living up to her reputation, slashing his blade aside. Heavy footsteps were crashing down the staircase, which momentarily distracted the Nord, her eyes flickering towards the staircase. When she turned back to Ilend, she was too late to block his thrust; she could only twist, so the daedric blade merely pierced her spleen instead of her heart. Staggering back, the Nord raised her hand to cast a healing spell, only to be impaled from behind by Gorgoth's bound sword.

Ilend paid no attention to the sparks covering Else's falling body. Instead, he threw his sword away and knelt beside Aerin, who was doubled over, groaning and clutching the hilt of the dagger protruding from her stomach. A thin trickle of blood was dribbling from her mouth, clashing with the pale skin of her cheek. Gorgoth threw Else's body off his sword, letting the spell dissipate, and hurried over, with an anxious Martin following closely.

"That dagger's got to be removed before she can be healed," muttered Gorgoth, fumbling for the hilt of the dagger. His thick, sausage-like fingers couldn't get a good grip. Gorgoth growled in frustration and looked at Ilend. "You rip it out," he instructed. "It's too small; I can't get a good grip." As Ilend obediently gripped the hilt, Gorgoth shifted his gaze to Aerin, whose eyes were only half-open. "Aerin, this is going to hurt," he muttered. She mumbled something unintelligible in response. Gorgoth nodded to Ilend.

The Imperial steeled himself, then brutally ripped the dagger out of Aerin's stomach. Immediately, blood and bile flowed out of the jagged cut. Aerin's eyes shot open, and a strained gasp escaped from her lips. Within seconds, the blue healing aura of Gorgoth's spell enveloped her, and the wound closed, leaving only a jagged rip in her leather armour as a lasting memento, apart from the drying blood. The Wood Elf's head fell back to the floor, panting as though she'd just run a marathon.

"Fucking... bitch," she gasped, gratefully accepting Ilend's hand and getting hauled to her feet. Unsteady on her legs due to the trauma of the wound, she still managed to stagger over to Else's body and spit on her. The patrons of the Inn who hadn't fled screaming into the streets watched her cautiously. Turning around, she stumbled and would have fallen if Ilend hadn't caught her.

"Careful, Aerin," rumbled Gorgoth. "A wound like that leaves a lasting impression, even if promptly healed. You'll need a lot of rest until you feel better." The Orc looked past Aerin down at Else. "I wouldn't have expected them to react this quickly," he muttered, half to himself. He was still rubbing his chin and musing over their circumstances when the door crashed open and several Skingrad guardsmen filed in with swords drawn, led by a tanned, grizzled, bare-headed Imperial, whose eyes swept over the inn and swiftly alighted on the dead Nord.

At a word, his men spread out and surrounded the most likely culprits. Gorgoth stood calmly, arms folded, eyes never leaving the face of the bald Imperial, who was clearly the Guard Captain by his badge of rank. The captain, perceiving no immediate danger, sheathed his sword and walked up to Gorgoth. "Are you responsible for that?" he asked, indicating the dead body of Else, his voice hard.

"No, I believe that she was responsible for her own death," replied Gorgoth. He motioned for Ilend to recount what actually happened, as the Orc actually had no way of knowing what had transpired; he had been up in the room with Martin. The guardsman's eyes flickered over to Ilend.

"Any of these witnesses here will tell you that it was an unprovoked assault on my Bosmer friend here," Ilend told him, waving his free arm at the patrons lining the walls, as far away from the guards as they could get. His other arm was still supporting Aerin, whose own arms were wrapped around his waist in a near-death grip. "We were talking at the table, and for no apparent reason, she pulled out a dagger." The guard captain's eyes narrowed; he was clearly having trouble believing a word of it. Ilend continued. "You know about Kvatch, about how men and mer fought for the enemy alongside the Dremora?" Ilend gestured at Else's body. "She was one of them."

The captain nodded to two of his men, who sheathed their blades and started making their way around the inn, taking statements. Moving closer to Ilend, he frowned. "I've seen you somewhere before," he muttered.

Ilend smiled as though recalling a fond memory. "That we have, Dion," he laughed. "In the Kvatch-Skingrad town guard war games last year, I was the one that scaled your wall and hauled down the Skingrad flag."

Dion looked completely perplexed for a second, before he, too, started chuckling. "Always knew I should have placed a watchman on that side. You climbed like a Bosmer," he grunted, slapping Ilend on the shoulder. His hand found the blood on Ilend's chainmail, and he scratched at it, his mirth fading. "Was it really that bad at Kvatch?" he asked.

"Very," replied Ilend, his own face darkening. "Not many made it out alive. The city is in ruins. But we can rebuild. Kvatch is not yet finished."

Dion grunted and stepped back. "Well, at the very least, you dealt with another of those bastards," he growled, glaring down at the corpse of the Nord. "I wouldn't be so quick to believe you if Artellian hadn't got another of these agents locked in the castle dungeon. We'll get him to talk soon enough."

"I wouldn't count on it," sighed Ilend. "The one we captured in Kvatch didn't talk, despite our best efforts at 'persuasion'. Good luck, anyway."

Dion nodded. "Take care," he muttered, raising his hand in a half-salute before walking out of the inn, taking half his men with him. The remainder secured the witness statements and hauled Else's body out of the West Weald Inn. Erina, who for the entire incident had remained behind the bar wearing a thunderous expression, muttered something about always having to clean up after the guards.

"Well, at least that's one less enemy agent to look out for tonight," observed Gorgoth, breaking the silence. The tension was slowly leaking out of the atmosphere, and the patrons were returning to their tables or heading up to their rooms, giving Gorgoth a wide berth. "No need for a watch tonight; I'll set some magical barriers on the doors, and a few other traps. They won't get through."

"Well, at least we can finally get a safe night's sleep," muttered Ilend. He looked down at Aerin to find that she'd fallen half asleep, leaning her head on his chest. "I guess you weren't lying about bad wounds being exhausting," he said to Gorgoth, prodding Aerin gently to wake her up.

"And why would I lie about anything?" asked Gorgoth rhetorically, not waiting for an answer as he led the way up the stairs. Martin followed him, leaving Ilend to deal with the groggy Aerin. After wiping away the trickle of blood that had fled her mouth with his bare hand, Ilend retrieved his shield and gauntlets from where they had been thrown when he'd overturned the table. Aerin had been so weakened by the wound, as Gorgoth predicted, that Ilend had to half-carry her up the stairs.

The second door on the right led to a fairly spacious room, with a few chairs and a table taking up most of the space. After they'd entered, Gorgoth closed the door behind them and raised his hand, the greenish glow of some form of illusion magic enveloping the door. Ilend dumped his shield and gauntlets on the table beside Gorgoth's steel gauntlets, no easy task when he still had one arm wrapped securely around Aerin. The Wood Elf kept insisting that she could walk unaided, but kept stumbling whenever she pulled away from him.

"Aerin, you've been stabbed in the gut and had half your entrails sliced through," sighed Ilend as he barely caught her for the third time. "I doubt even Gorgoth would be in a good shape after that, even if he was healed." Aerin pouted but allowed him to guide her through to the bedroom, manoeuvring his sword hilt out of her ribs. "It's better than being dead, which you certainly would have been otherwise," commented the Imperial.

The bedroom was smaller than the sitting room, with two single beds taking up most of the space. Martin was already lying on one, snoring slightly, and fully dressed apart from his boots. The open windows allowed the light of the moons into the room, making it easy to identify the basic furnishings; two bedside tables and a tiny wardrobe. Ilend dumped Aerin unceremoniously on the unoccupied bed. She grunted and reached down to remove her boots as Ilend walked over to the window and took a look out. Moonlight shone on the cobbles, making it easy to see into the street. It was empty, apart from a lone Skingrad guard, holding a torch and looking bored. Ilend could sympathise with him; the night watch was the most boring job in the town guard.

Ilend retreated back into the room. Aerin had by now removed all her armour, if her tight-fitting boiled leather could really be called armour, and piled it at the bottom of her bed. Ilend, knowing her flirtatious personality, wasn't surprised to see her normal garments; a pair of tight-fitting black trousers and a shirt that exposed half her midriff. As he walked out of the room, he found himself idly wondering why she'd never flirted with him so far, a fact he deeply regretted.

Gorgoth drove such thoughts out of his head. The warrior-shaman was still standing by the door, laying some incomprehensible spell on it. He finished and stepped back, turning to Ilend. "That trap will paralyze anyone who comes through that door for a full two minutes. Harmless if they're innocent, debilitating if not. And they'd have to get through my magical barrier first."

Ilend nodded in appreciation of the shaman's magical power and proceeded to remove his chainmail. Gorgoth joined him, and soon the sitting room echoed with the sounds of pieces of steel and chainmail being strewn about the floor. When Ilend brought up his fear that Martin and Aerin would hear them, Gorgoth grunted that he'd coated the walls of the sitting room with a temporary modified Silence spell. Ilend had never heard of anything of the sort, but he was no mage, so he simply nodded as though he knew what the Orc was talking about.

"Wish they had good baths here," muttered Ilend, frowning at the dried blood and stagnant sweat that defiled every stitch of his undershirt.

"Why wash it off?" rumbled Gorgoth, having removed all his own armour and was down to his trousers and vest, both of which were soaked with sweat. "You're only going to sweat more and get the same result. Leave it and use your time more wisely, I say." The Orc lowered himself into a chair and dispelled his Silence spell, attempting to make himself comfortable.

Ilend snorted and laid his daedric longsword down on the table alongside Gorgoth's belt, which held his silver-worked long mace. "And there lies a difference in our culture, gro-Kharz," he muttered, keeping his voice low. "I'm guessing that Orcs find it acceptable to smell like they've just come from a battle, all the time. We Imperials at least attempt to make ourselves socially presentable most of the time."

"As a matter of fact, Ilend, our race isn't as crude as that. We simply know what's most important," retorted Gorgoth, his eyes half closed. The Orc seemed completely at ease, leaning back in the soft, padded chair despite dwarfing it, his legs splayed out in front of him, arms at rest on the arms of the chair. His breathing was slow and steady.

"If you say so," sighed Ilend, throwing himself down on a chair, sitting in a similar fashion to the Orc opposite him. "Good Night."

"Sleep deeply. Do not be troubled by dreams. May you live to see the morning."

Ilend raised an eyebrow, but the Orc had already closed his eyes. Not wanting to disturb him, Ilend simply closed his own eyes and tried to sleep. He supposed that it was Gorgoth's way of saying 'good night'. Not the most comforting statement, but Ilend felt safe. He was in the protective presence of a warrior-shaman who could destroy a small army. However, it still took him a long time to get to sleep, in contrast to Gorgoth. The Orc's slow, even, steady breathing remained unchanged, a steady rhythm coming from across the room.

When Ilend woke, he found himself in a distinctly uncomfortable position, with his head halfway down the back of the chair and a large part of his lower body hanging over the floor. Gorgoth, who had prodded him awake, grunted a greeting and moved over to the sole window of the room, throwing it open and letting in the warm morning air. The sun was fully over the horizon.

"You appeared restless in your sleep," observed Gorgoth, stretching, his massive frame almost filling half the room. "Did your dreams trouble you? It is to be expected after what you lived and fought through."

Ilend shook his head, rising slowly to his feet, working the crick in his neck. "I never remember my dreams," he mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "After Kvatch, it's probably for the best."

Gorgoth nodded in understanding. "Go and wake the others," he commanded. "I have to undo the traps and barriers I placed."

Ilend swung open the door to the bedroom and strode through, yawning. The beams of sunlight streaming in through the window had failed to wake either Aerin or Martin. The latter was rolling around and mumbling incoherently; his clothing was disarrayed and his bed was half-dismantled. Ilend recognised the signs of a nightmare and placed a hand on the priest's shoulder.

Martin's eyes shot open, and he grabbed Ilend's hand in a crushing grip, a wild look etched on his face. "They're burning the city!" he gasped in a strained whisper. "We've got to get to the chapel, it's our only hope-" He was cut off as Ilend grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

"Calm yourself, Martin," he soothed. "We're in the West Weald Inn in Skingrad. Something like Kvatch will never happen again. It's over." The swordsman gently prised his wrist from Martin's grasp. The wild look faded from the priest's eyes, and he sighed and fell back onto his bed, looking up at the ceiling, drained. "Come on, we've got to get to Weynon Priory," urged Ilend. "The sooner you light the Dragonfires, the sooner we can be assured that Kvatch will never be repeated."

That seemed to fully wake Martin up, and soon he was up and getting his boots on. Ilend turned his attentions to Aerin, who hadn't woken despite the commotion barely a foot away from her. Half her blanket was on the floor, exposing her upper body, and Ilend appreciated the view for a moment before gently shaking her. She mumbled something about needing a few more minutes before rolling over, leaving Ilend staring at her back.

"Try slapping her," advised Gorgoth from where he was standing in the doorway, his arm above him leaning on the tall doorframe. He held his gaze for a moment longer to make Ilend sure that he wasn't joking, then turned back into the sitting room. The following clanging sounds indicated that he was donning his armour. Ilend smirked and turned back to the Bosmer. Instead of slapping her, he merely grabbed her under the arms and physically hauled her out of bed. By the time he placed her on her feet, she was awake enough, judging by the glare she shot him when she staggered into him.

"Ya could have just shaken me a bit harder, ya know," she muttered, folding her arms beneath her breasts and looking up at him critically, with one eyebrow arched.

"Hey, you should be thankful," retorted Ilend, spreading his arms wide, his expression one of innocence. "Gorgoth told me to slap you. If you'd have preferred that..." She rolled her eyes and brushed past him, picking up some of her armour from where it lay at the foot of her bed. Reminded that he needed to equip his own chainmail, Ilend hurried back into the sitting room.

Gorgoth was stamping his feet, settling them into his boots and undoubtedly dislodging some plaster from the roof below. The Orc had somehow also managed to quickly don his greaves and breastplate, and was fastening his pauldrons with some difficulty. Ilend didn't move to help; the warrior-shaman clearly knew how to put on plate armour single-handedly, an ability that Ilend couldn't begin to fathom. Chainmail was so much simpler. And lighter. Gorgoth might have been fast, but when he fastened his belt over his breastplate, Ilend had long since thrown on his mail and was eating an apple he'd found in a fruit bowl.

"So, what's the plan for today?" asked Martin, walking through from the bedroom. Aerin's grunts were audibly drifting through as she squeezed into her boiled leathers. The priest had undoubtedly felt uncomfortable sharing the room with someone so free with her good looks, but at least he seemed to have recovered from his rough night.

"We take the quickest possible road route to Chorrol," explained Gorgoth, making sure his mace was secure in its loop on his belt. "I don't see any quicker method of getting there. We'll have to push the horses harder than I'd like, but it's got to be done. I intend to reach Weynon Priory in two days." Gorgoth looked Martin up and down. "I hope you enjoyed your sleep, priest. I doubt you'll be getting much more of it." If Martin was disappointed by this exhausting news, he gave no sign of it.

In seemingly no time at all, Gorgoth's insatiable urge to keep moving had hustled them down to the stables. The payment to Erina had been settled the previous night, and it was probably wise not to outstay their welcome; the sole farewell the proprietor had given them was a glare as they walked out of her door, no doubt for giving her a bloody mess to clean up the night before, in addition to breaking a large number of plates and glasses. Apon reaching the stables, Gorgoth threw a handful of coins to the ostler, swung open the large gate, and led the way out.

After trotting quickly through the section of the Gold Road within Skingrad's walls, Gorgoth surprisingly didn't increase the pace, stating that the horses would need warming up first. None complained; it actually gave them a chance for what rest and talk they could snatch on horseback. Martin was mostly silent, probably brooding over his future, and when Ilend rode up to join Gorgoth a few metres ahead, Aerin assumed that he was going to discuss their pace, or Weynon Priory, or something similar. She was wrong.

"By the Divines, you could drown in her eyes." Ilend was muttering furtively, bent over so that his head was close to Gorgoth and they could talk in low voices. "They're like deep pools of blue sapphires, you know. I've never seen eyes like em before."

"I am aware that her eyes are blue," rumbled Gorgoth, also keeping his voice low so that it merely sounded like an avalanche in the distance. "You do not have to describe them to me."

Undaunted by the Orc's uncaring attitude, Ilend shifted his focus. "I thought my ex-lover had the best legs I've ever seen, but... damn, Aerin's got good ones," he muttered excitedly. "And those leathers of hers really show em off, don't you think?" Gorgoth merely spared a second's glance for the Imperial before once again turning his attention back to the road ahead.

As Ilend was about to start raving on about another feature of Aerin's beauty, Gorgoth cut him off. "I think Bosmer have good hearing," he observed, stroking his horse's mane.

"What was that? Good hearing?" asked Aerin, riding up with Martin to ride either side of the two heavily-armoured warriors. Ilend looked distinctly uncomfortable until he realised that Aerin showed no signs of hearing his earlier comments. There was no time to make sure of this, as at that moment Gorgoth declared that the horses were warm enough for exertion and sped up to a full gallop.

They remained at full gallop until long after the sun had gone down, in the Gorgoth custom. After making camp at the side of the Black Road, they were up again at dawn, Gorgoth pushing the horses to their limits in an effort to make it to Weynon Priory before dusk. By the time the sun was climbing down from its noonday zenith, they had almost trampled two highwaymen, succeeded in trampling another, and had passed a half dozen shocked Imperial Legion patrols, with Gorgoth allowing no letup in pace. An attempt by Martin to negotiate a reduction in pace to spare the horses was met with a curt: "The sooner you don the Amulet, the sooner Nirn can be safe. That, I'm sure you will agree, is worth a few horses."

The unceasing speed of the journey paid off; the sun, a blood-red flaming ball, was suspended just above the horizon when the group arrived at Weynon Priory. As Gorgoth reined in just short of the lengthening shadows cast by the priory, screams reached his ears. He was immediately on guard, and warned the rest of the company to get ready for battle. The screams grew louder, and the Dunmer shepherd ran into view, waving his arms and yelling something incomprehensible. Behind him ran two figures clad in the armour of the agents of the enemy.

Gorgoth didn't hesitate. He sprang off his horse, drawing his mace and landing with feet planted. The Dunmer swerved and headed straight for him, drawing his two attackers with him. As the terrified shepherd dashed past the Orc, Gorgoth stepped forward and smashed his mace into the leading agent. The impact crushed his cuirass, shattered his ribs, and sent him flying backwards in a sea of sparks. His comrade attempted to slow down, but Gorgoth moved in and kicked his legs from under him. Before the armoured agent could regain his footing, Ilend was on him, skewering him with his blade.

The Dunmer shepherd had stayed in the area. "You have to help!" he half-shouted, clutching at Ilend's chainmail. "They're killing everyone they can find! I saw them kill Prior Maborel-" Ilend cut him off by shoving him out of the way.

"The sooner you let us do our jobs, the sooner we can stop the killing," he growled, moving forward towards the priory with his bloodied daedric blade at the ready. Gorgoth advanced beside him, with Aerin just behind them with an arrow nocked. Martin brought up the rear, clutching a steel dagger, his left hand ready to throw elemental death at any threat. The shepherd ran off down the road to Chorrol, probably to fetch the guards.

Four agents were present in the priory courtyard. Three of them were attacking a lone monk, while another was looking towards the chapel. The body of the Prior lay on the ground, blood pooling around his tonsured head. Wasting no time, Martin leapt forward and unleashed a powerful lightning bolt, frying two of the monk's attackers. Aerin took the other one down with an arrow in the chest. The surviving agent spotted them and ran for the safety of the woods, abandoning his weapon. He was fast, but Gorgoth's fireball was faster, blasting a hole in his chest and flinging the sparking body into a tree.

The surviving monk looked slightly bemused at his salvation, but quickly came to his sense and rushed to meet them, blood dripping from his katana from where he'd wounded one of his attackers. "Thank Talos you came!" he gasped, panting and leaning on his blade. "They drew weapons without warning. Prior Maborel didn't stand a chance." Pausing for breath, he looked towards the chapel, an alarmed look on his face. "I saw two or three of them run into the chapel, where Brother Jauffre was praying. We've got to hurry!" With that, he was off running again, towards the small chapel. Not waiting to question how a monk was in possession of a rare blade and the skill to use it, the group hurried after him.

The chapel was a small building, with a few rows of stone pews facing a simple altar. Candles decorated the walls, seemingly pointless as the stained-glass windows let in a lot of light, even with the sun almost below the horizon. The result was that the stone floor was covered with the long shadows of men fighting. Jauffre, despite his apparent age, was wielding a dai-katana with agility and skill. One assassin already lay crumpled and bleeding on a pew; his two comrades didn't look like they were about to break down the Grandmaster's defences any time soon.

Gorgoth hung back near the doors, making sure no one escaped, while Ilend and the monk rushed forward to attack. The chapel was too cramped for someone as big as Gorgoth to fight to his full effectiveness; it was likely he'd just get in the way if he attempted to wade in. Aerin was also holding back, looking for an opening with arrow nocked, but unable to get a good shot. Martin was looking slightly disgusted at the desecration of a holy place.

The would-be assassins were focused on killing Jauffre, and the first they learnt of the new arrivals were swords cutting deep into their backs. As they fell, sparks enveloping their bodies, Jauffre sagged, panting, clutching a spreading stain on the left shoulder of his robe. "You came just in time," he muttered as thanks. "It is fortunate that I went against my usual custom and brought my weapon with me to prayer; these dark times call for such measures, and I'm glad I trusted my instincts."

Gorgoth stepped forward and healed the cut on the old Blade's shoulder. The Breton grunted in appreciation and worked his left arm. "Thank you. But I fear that the Enemy have got what they came for; this was no strike against a few old monks."

The Orc knew exactly what he was talking about. "You think they found the Amulet?"

"It was in a secret compartment in Weynon House. We should check on it, but I fear the worst." The Breton's grim face empathised the danger that they faced as he swept past them and out to the courtyard. He only spared a quick, sorrowful glance for the corpse of Prior Maborel as he hurried past it, leaving the job of closing the old monk's eyes to the younger monk.

The old stairs creaked and groaned as they bore the weight of the party, which included two in heavy armour. Jauffre hissed in anguish as he burst into his room; a bookshelf that had covered a previously hidden compartment had been overturned. He hurried into the compartment and groaned. The chest that had held the Amulet of Kings stood open and empty. Visibly sagging, the monk staggered back into his room.

"It is as I feared... the enemy has taken the Amulet," he moaned. "Now what hope do we have?" He groaned and buried his wrinkled head in his hands, apparently the brunt of the two biggest failures of his career hitting him hard.

"Not all is lost, Jauffre," grunted Gorgoth. "The enemy may have destroyed Kvatch, but he lost the battle. Dagon did not achieve his goal. Martin survived."

Jauffre's head jerked up, and he stared at Gorgoth, then at Martin, seeing him properly for the first time. The uncanny resemblance between Martin and the late Emperor meant that Jauffre didn't have to be told who Martin was. He simply smiled in relief, straightening his back, a bit of his old iron creeping back into his posture. "Then all hope is not yet lost," he muttered, the very words seeming to hearten him. He walked forward and clapped Martin on the shoulder. "It's good to finally meet you, Martin. You'll be safe in Cloud Ruler Temple until we can work out exactly what to do." Martin nervously nodded, apparently not knowing what else to do.

"Cloud Ruler Temple? Isn't that the fortress north of Bruma?" asked Ilend, rubbing his chin. He'd shaved back in Skingrad, but the stubble had swiftly regrown in the two days of fast travel.

Jauffre nodded. "It is the stronghold of the Blades, and one of the safest locations in all Tamriel," he replied. "Martin will be safe there, if anywhere can be called safe. It will be valued as a sanctuary in the days to come."

"I fail to see what we are waiting for," observed Gorgoth.

"You're right," said Jauffre, springing into action and leading the way down the stairs. The younger monk was sitting at the table, frantically scribbling a letter, his katana, still wet with blood, leaning on the back of his chair. "If you do not have horses, we'll take what the Priory can spare. Speed will not particularly aid us, but I wouldn't want to hang around."

Within minutes, Jauffre had mounted the fastest horse the Priory had to offer, and they were ready to move out. The bodies were left where they had fallen; it was now the Chorrol Town Guard's mess to deal with. After the confusion of the past weeks, temporary sanctuary was now in sight in the form of the ancient stronghold of the Blades.

* * *

**A/N: Now that you've read it... you know what to do. Review.**


	13. Sanctuary

**A/N: Once again, the accursed writer's block, with the additional curse of lack of inspiration and plain bone idleness has delayed this next installment. I'll try whipping myself next time. Anyhow, many thanks to those of you who reviewed, including:**

**Commentaholic: Gorgoth is skilled in Restoration, yes, but some enchantments are far deadlier than others... more on that in this chapter.**

**Underpaid Critic: Yes, Gorgoth is extremely powerful, but don't for a second think that this task is going to be made easy for him; he will definitely bleed in the process of saving Tamriel (and he won't do it alone, either). Also ,there's plenty of people in Cyrodiil who are just as powerful, if not more so, than Gorgoth; Agronak gro-Malog, Mannimarco, and Mankar Camoran to name but a few, though I'm not saying that Gorgoth will necessarily fight them all.**

**Steiner: congratulations on catching up. And thanks for the bumper crop of reviews.**

**To those of you who haven't reviewed, yet are reading this, then REVIEW. I don't care what you think of your own reviewing skills, but if you point out a flaw in my writing, or even just offer encouragement, it can only help me. So review. Enough rambling for now...**

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: Sanctuary**

The flagstones of the Orange road sparkled wetly under the noonday sun, which was peeking out from behind a billowing grey mass of cloud. After a day of rain, the black storm clouds had passed, leaving the scent of wet grass hanging in the air. Muddy puddles collected in cracks and holes in the stones that paved the highway. Occasionally, drops of water fell from the leaves of the trees overhanging the road, sending ripples through otherwise still puddles. The only thing out of place on this particular stretch of road was the body of the Khajiiti highwayman.

He lay on his back, his glazed yellow eyes looking up through the canopy of trees at the sun. The boiled leather covering most of his body was wet with yesterday's rain, and his fur was slick with the same rain, yet to dry out under the sun. His iron broadsword lay a metre from his outstretched hand, under the shadow of a tree. The Khajiit's other hand was thrown up above his head, as though to stop something. The arrow stuck up straight out of his chest, the cuirass dark with blood in a small circle around the fatal wound. A few thin trickles of blood were dripping from the corpse, splashing into a small puddle, mingling with the water, creating tiny swirls of pink that clouded the reflective surface.

Aerin knelt and pulled her arrow out of the feline corpse. "I think he might have bitten off more than he could chew," she laughed, replacing her arrow in the quiver on her back and remounting Firebrand.

"It was a good shot," commented Ilend. "I think he was at least hundred metres away when he saw us. You didn't even give him time to run." The Imperial's horse skirted around the corpse, probably repulsed by the stench of death.

"Remain watchful," rumbled Gorgoth, his own yellow eyes canning the tree line. "He may not have been alone."

"We should get back up to speed," reminded Jauffre, who was leading the way on his own diminutive bay. Gorgoth, who had a keen eye for horses, could tell that the horse was better than it looked. "Cloud Ruler Temple is still a day's hard ride away, and I wouldn't want to keep Martin this vulnerable for long." The Breton sighed and shook his head. "This is how the princes were assassinated, riding on the roads of Cyrodiil that were supposedly safe," he muttered.

"Enough with your regretfulness, Jauffre," reproached Gorgoth, trotting up to ride beside the Breton. "Regretting anything wastes time and encourages pessimism. Focus on the task at hand." With a hard look to reinforce his words, Gorgoth spurred his stallion up to a gallop, the rest of the group falling in behind him.

As they moved further north, the vegetation and trees got sparser and visibly tougher. The air grew colder, and the terrain grew more rugged, with ridges and hills dotting the landscape. Glimpsed views to the south whenever a hill wasn't blocking the way grew ever more spectacular; on occasions, they could even glimpse Lake Rumare, sparkling in the sun, with the Imperial City sitting in the middle of it, White Gold Tower rising up like a pillar reaching for the heavens.

The skies cleared as they made their way north to Bruma, the clouds dispersing and the blinding sun shining down at them out of a clear blue sky, reflecting off the snowy peaks of the Jerall Mountains to the north. They joined the Silver Road, which got more narrow and winding as their altitude increased. Aerin, being a Bosmer and therefore the one least used to cold climates, was the first to start shivering, despite her thick wool travelling cloak. On the other hand, Gorgoth, despite his plate armour conducting cold very well, remained unruffled, partly due to his conditioning and partly due to the fact that the Wrothgarian Mountains were regarded as one of the coldest regions of Tamriel.

By the time Bruma came into sight, the breath of horse, man, and mer was visible as mists rising from their chilled faces. Frozen sweat was starting to collect on the horse's flanks, evidence of the punishing pace set by Jauffre. The Breton was the first to rein in to regard the city that lay before them. Bruma's walls were clearly Cyrodiilic by design, but the town within them showed heavy Nordic influences on the architecture. The sturdy wooden buildings would not look out of place in Skyrim, and it appeared that the only buildings free of some form of Nordic influence were the chapel and the castle.

Jauffre didn't stop to stable the horses, but instead rode right through the open city gates at a trot. The guards watched them warily, but eventually decided that the party of armed men and mer didn't pose a threat, and relaxed the grip on their halberds, returning to the usual cold monotony of gate guard duty. Jauffre led the way through the wide streets of Bruma, past guildhalls, shops, and large, low houses, before eventually reaching Bruma's north gate, located near the castle. The guards here watched them less warily than their comrades on the south gate; this time, the armed party was leaving Bruma, not entering.

The sun was still hovering some way above the mountains to the east as they made their way up the road to Cloud Ruler Temple, which was still hidden from view by rock formations. The steep, winding nature of the road meant that progress was slowed to little more than walking pace.

"Where's all the snow?" asked Aerin, still shivering even under her thick cloak. "I thought snow lay here all year."

Gorgoth snorted, sending visible plumes of his breath into the atmosphere. "You must be confusing this place with the Jeralls or the Wrothgarians," he told her. "This isn't Skyrim. Bruma only gets deep, thick snow from the late autumn to spring."

"Well, it _feels_ cold enough for snow," muttered Aerin, attempting to compact herself in a feeble attempt for more warmth. "It's times like this that I miss Valenwood..."

Ilend smirked at the Bosmer's discomfort. He'd been to Bruma several times in the past, and was grateful for his own thick cloak that was now covering his chainmail. It managed to keep most of the cold out, though there was a cold draught billowing up from the ground. "I'm guessing you've never been this far north, Aerin?" he asked, moving his tired, cold horse to ride next to Firebrand, who seemed to be in equally low spirits.

"What do you think, guardsman?" came the sharp reply. "If I'd known it was this bloody cold, I'd have brought fourteen layers of furs or something... or borrowed Gorgoth's spare clothes."

Ilend, still quietly laughing at the thought of Aerin wearing Gorgoth's massive animal-skin garments, removed his own cloak, reached over, and wrapped it around Aerin. The chilling wind hit him like a hammer to the face, and he almost immediately started shivering, but the thought of the fire up in Cloud Ruler Temple and Aerin's shocked, grateful smile was enough to keep him going. "If you serve in the Kvatch Guard under Savlian Matius for six years, it's impossible not to get some sense of chivalry," he explained, clutching his reins tighter in an effort to stop his hands shaking with the cold. The internal leather padding of the chainmail gauntlets wasn't good for insulation.

"Much appreciated, Ilend," murmured Aerin, drawing his cloak tighter around her small frame. "Remind me never to visit Skyrim or Orsinium in the winter; I think I'd freeze ta death." She grimaced. "And that's not exactly on my list of things to do."

"Actually, it's better if you come here in winter," remarked Jauffre. "Cloud Ruler Temple looks even more remarkable when covered in snow."

Gorgoth raised an eyebrow slightly. "I've seen examples of Akaviri architecture in books, but this will be the first time I've laid eyes on it in person." The Orc's horse whickered at the cold he was experiencing. Gorgoth leaned forward, stroked his mane, and whispered something in his ear that seemed to placate the stallion. "In Orsinium, the horses are bred for hardiness and stamina," he grunted. "I'm not sure where this horse hails from, but he's not suited to the climate."

"Looks like a bulkier version of the Cheydinhal black to me," observed Martin. The priest had spoken little on the journey; no doubt he was thinking over the sudden new course his life had taken. Out of the five, he seemed to be the one least affected by the cold, apart from Gorgoth; apparently, he was warming himself using magical methods, as his tattered robes did not look particularly insulating.

"I'm calling him Vorguz," replied Gorgoth, patting the mentioned horse's neck. "In the Orcish language, that means fortune; it was to our benefit that we found a horse quick and sturdy enough to carry me and my armour."

"Yes, and I suppose it's also good fortune that we've got here so quickly," announced Jauffre as they passed a rocky outcropping. "Prepare to lay your eyes on Cloud Ruler Temple, ancient home of the Blades, for the first time."

Cloud Ruler Temple slowly emerged as their line of sight increased. Situated on the top of a steep hill, the road they were on was the only method of access, unless someone could somehow scale the almost sheer slopes of the hill, and then climb the completely sheer side of the structure. The Temple stood proud against the white backdrop of the snow-capped Jerall Mountains. The Akaviri hadn't been seen in Cyrodiil for centuries, but this fortress was clearly one of their most lasting legacies. Two massive towers flanked a huge iron gate, and the tall, thick walls of the fortress encircled the entire structure, following the curve of the top of the hill. Not much of the inner fortress was visible from below, but the pointed, tiled roofs of the barracks were just visible. The exquisite, but purposeful beauty of Cloud Ruler Temple was something that many stonemasons could only dream of.

"Good construction," grunted Gorgoth, nodding appreciatively as his observant yellow eyes swept over the fortress. "An army looking to storm that would need quality and numbers on their side, and would still lose many men." The Orc rubbed his chin. "The Akaviri can build good strongholds, I'll give them that."

"I can think of no safer place in Cyrodiil," claimed Jauffre, leading the way up to the massive gates. "It has stood strong against many troubles. I only hope that it will be enough." He sighed. "The attack on Kvatch was a method of warfare that I haven't seen before. The best defence we have now is speed and secrecy."

"Well, it looks warm, at least," commented Aerin, riding up close behind Jauffre, eager to get to the promised warmth inside the fortress. To her frustration, Jauffre slowly dismounted, motioning for the others to do the same. They had obviously already been spotted, possibly even before they had laid eyes on the fortress, so when Jauffre led them up to the gates, the groans of gears and levers reached their ears as the colossal-iron-clad gates slowly swung open.

The steep slope once again obscured their vision of the heart of the Temple; all they could see was a long set of stairs stretching up into the depths of the fortress, flanked by sheer stone walls. The gates seemed to be operated from somewhere inside the fortress, as there was only one Blade in sight, a fully armoured Redguard, stepping forward, saluting Jauffre, fist to chest.

"Hail, Grandmaster," he greeted, his voice clear and smooth, with a hint of a Hammerfellian accent evident. "It warms my heart to see you alive and well." The Redguard's sharp blue eyes moved past the Breton, taking in every member of the company, assessing and weighing them. His gaze came to rest on Martin. Recognition sparked in the eyes. "And this must be..."

"Yes, Cyrus," cut in Jauffre. "This is Martin Septim, lost heir of Uriel. Are the Blades assembled?" His voice had an undercurrent of impatience; he was obviously unused to being kept waiting on the doorstep of his own fortress.

"We are assembled, Grandmaster," replied Cyrus. Turning to Martin, he offered another salute. "Your presence honours us, your Majesty. Cloud Ruler Temple has not had the honour of an imperial visit for many years." Nodding once more to Martin, the Redguard turned and led the way up the stairs. The steps were wide and long, spaced to enable horses to be brought up to the Temple. Jauffre motioned for the rest to follow him and started up after Cyrus, leading his horse behind him. The others followed suit.

Waiting to greet them as they reached the top of the stairs was a courtyard full of Blades. Drawn up in two ranks either side of the courtyard, they flanked the path to the entrance to the main hall. A handful of Blades came to take their horses, but Gorgoth judged that apart from them, the entire population of Cloud Ruler Temple was turned out. It was a fine display of power. A hundred Blades stood either side of the courtyard, and more were in the guard towers lining the walls. Two Knight Captains flanked the small set of stairs that led to the main hall, standing to attention like the rest of their men. Gorgoth recognised Renault from the sewers where Uriel had died; the only change he could notice was that her armour had been cleaned of blood and grime.

Jauffre led Martin up to the stairs, then turned him to face the assembled Blades. Ilend and Aerin, both looking somewhat awkward, stood behind Gorgoth and tried to make themselves smaller, while the Orc stood tall with arms folded, behind and to the left of Martin. Jauffre spread his arms wide and addressed the gathered assembly of Blades; his normally thin, reedy voice being projected loud and clear to the Emperor's bodyguards.

"Blades! Dark times are upon us. Emperor Uriel Septim is dead, killed on our watch. We must all bear the shame of our failure." Helmeted heads lowered at the grandmaster's grim words, grimaces contorted faces for instants before they were wrenched back to neutrality. "Long will we bear the stigma of seeing Uriel and he three sons die when under our protection. We failed in our duty, something that must never happen again." Jauffre paused to allow time for his words to sink in.

"However, all hope is not yet lost. The Enemy has not yet triumphed. Blades, you still have a duty to perform: guarding the last child of Uriel Septim with your lives!" At this, eyes flickered towards Martin before swiftly returning to Jauffre. Hope appeared to be rekindled in battle-worn eyes. "Yes, a last heir of the Dragon Blood yet lives. I present to you Martin Septim, last surviving son of Uriel Septim!" Jauffre stepped back and gestured to Martin with a sweep of his arm.

With the roar of two hundred voices and the rattle of two hundred katanas leaving their scabbards, the Blades hailed Martin Septim, genuine devotion shining in their eyes as they raised their katanas to him, the cold steel shining in the sunlight. Martin seemed overwhelmed by the gesture, taking a step back, eyes wide, and almost tripping over a stair until Gorgoth grabbed his arm and whispered in his ear: "They need a few words. Make it simple, make it short. They need no more." Martin nodded nervously, and Gorgoth released him. The priest – ex-priest- stepped forward and cleared his throat.

"I... thank you," he managed; his voice not as confident as Jauffre's but just as audible. The Blades watched him, katanas hanging by their sides. "It reassures me to know that I can rely on such good men in these troubling times. I... hope I can prove myself worthy of your loyalty in the coming days." The priest-turned-heir looked around uncertainly. "That's... that's all," he announced.

As one, the Blades sheathed their katanas, the sound almost drowning out Jauffre's instructions to the captains. Renault and the other captain moved off, ordering a return to normal duties, and the assembled Blades immediately began to disperse. Martin sighed in relief and moved back to talk to Gorgoth, keeping his eyes on the Blades. "Wasn't much of a speech, was it?" he grimaced.

"To the brave and strong, a few words are sometimes as good as many," remarked Gorgoth sagely. The Orc was tapping one of his prominent lower canines with a gauntleted finger.

"So it would seem. They seemed to think it was all right." Martin's eyes looked sideways at the Blades passing him, bowing their heads and muttering friendly salutes as they passed. "Gorgoth, I'll be the first to admit that this is overwhelming for me." The Imperial sighed. "I'm not even sure about what we should be doing, and now I'm meant to lead these people..." he groaned and rubbed his eyes.

Gorgoth gripped the heir's shoulder, forcing his head up. "You will learn," he reassured. "You are in good hands here. In time, you will grow used to your new duty." The Orc straightened and folded his arms. "For now, the key objective should be the return of the Amulet of Kings. As we speak, the magical barriers continue to crumble."

Martin nodded. "Yes, you're right; getting the Amulet back should be a priority. You should probably speak to Jauffre about that, I'll be busy getting... acquainted with my new duty." The heir sighed and started off in the direction of the great hall.

Jauffre was busy talking to Captain Renault, so Gorgoth went over to join Ilend and Aerin, leaning on the battlements and looking down at the landscape far below them. The Nordic architecture of Bruma was clearly visible, and beyond that, the expanse of the forest stretched for mile after mile. In the distance, Gorgoth's good eyes could make out Lake Rumare on the horizon, a pool of deep blue surrounding the architecture of the Imperial City, White Gold Tower seeming to reach for the heavens. It was visible from nearly every place in Cyrodiil, an omnipresent reminder of Imperial power.

"Nice place, this," remarked Aerin, casually leaning on the battlement. "Too bad about the bloody cold but that-" she swept her arm over the view "- is worth it." She was still wearing her own cloak and Ilend's on top of it, but with the hoods thrown back, so the wind tugged at her ponytail.

"I sometimes have to admit to an admiration for a view like this," replied Gorgoth, placing a hand on the battlement and standing tall, letting the wind buffet him and sway his war braids. "If my liking of natural beauty is a weakness, then I can be comforted that it is almost impossible to exploit." Aerin snorted.

"So, what happens now?" asked Ilend, folding his arms atop the battlement and gazing southwest, in the direction of Kvatch. "The Blades can do whatever needs doing from now on. I don't really see what else we can be used for."

"I think you'll be surprised, Ilend," mused Gorgoth, rubbing his chin. "In times like this, there is often a use for everyone. And deniable assets can be valuable tools." The Orc knew too well the brutal truth of that last statement; it was his use as a deniable asset by King Gortwog that had got him sent to Cyrodiil for execution.

Ilend sighed. "Well, as long as I get my revenge on Dagon eventually, I suppose my lust for vengeance can simmer for a while," he muttered. While he could head into the main hall to escape the cold that cut through his armour better than most steel could, the Imperial seemed to be deep in thought, ignoring the biting, chilling wind.

Footsteps on the stone behind them indicated the approach of Jauffre; any other footstep would have been louder due to the heavy boots worn by the Blades. Gorgoth turned, leaving Aerin to admire the view and leaving Ilend to his thoughts. "As the Emperor told you, it was not coincidence that brought you and he together in the Imperial City prison," observed Jauffre. In his hand he held a finely-made new Akaviri katana in its simple, boarhide scabbard. "I believe that the Divines might have had a hand in you being available when you were. That, combined with the old Emperor's trust in you, has convinced me to offer you a place in the ranks of the Blades, with the rank of Knight Brother." Jauffre took hold of the katana with both hands and offered it to Gorgoth.

Gorgoth concealed his surprise and rubbed his chin with a thick finger. While he knew he'd helped Jauffre and the Blades immeasurably, he'd never expected to be invited to join their ranks. "I need some time to think," he rumbled. "And, while I'm thinking it over... I think, if I join, I'll need a bigger katana."

One corner of Jauffre's mouth twitched upwards in the ghost of a smile. "I thought as much," he replied. He turned and walked off along the wall, presumably heading to the armoury. Gorgoth turned and leaned both arms on the wall, looking out into the distance at the Imperial City.

During his time in Cyrodiil, Gorgoth hadn't given much thought to his future. His life back in Orsinium had been unfulfilling; working as a freelance spellsword, a mercenary, brought him enough money to survive, but it created a yawning gap in his desires. He had been causeless; he had nothing to drive him. Previously, a fierce desire for independence had driven him, and now that he was his own master, Gorgoth had had little idea what to do with himself. He'd had all the personal power he needed; excellent armour, a mace of immense power, magical might, the ear of King Gortwog, but for all that, he'd been lacking.

Despite his unwilling entry into Cyrodiil, within days Gorgoth had filled that gap. The Emperor's quest had given him a much-needed direction in life; it had been urgent, and a worthy cause. Everything that followed filled Gorgoth with a sense of satisfaction that he hadn't felt since he'd struck his father down all those years ago. And now he'd been asked to join the Blades. Gorgoth had read a good number of books that mentioned the Blades, the personal bodyguards and spies of the Emperor. Without doubt, they were a proud organisation, fierce in the pursuit of their duties, and suitably honourable. Casting his memory back to those books, Gorgoth could remember few instances of an Orc joining the Blades; he would join the ranks of those honoured few, should he accept.

Taking up the offer would mean continuing down the path that the late Emperor had laid for him; the path that might be essential to saving Tamriel. Gorgoth inwardly smirked at the thought of this destiny falling to him personally. It was good that Jauffre knew almost nothing of his past. If the Breton knew a fraction of the things Gorgoth had done, it would probably be enough for him to call on the Blades to kill Gorgoth and stick his head on a pike. Merely thinking about his past actions brought it all back to Gorgoth: the screaming, the innocent Bretons running around in panic, blood spraying the grass as he struck them down, fireballs from his hands setting thatched roofs alight, and the ever-present, maniacal roaring of the Orc raiders under his command.

Shaking his head violently, Gorgoth dispelled such thoughts. He did not regret any single action of his past, but he remained wary of some of it catching up to him. His eyes refocused, alighting on Cloud Ruler Temple, the symbol of Imperial power in the region. It might fall whatever he did, or the fate of the Empire might rest on his shoulders, or it might rest on another's. But Gorgoth was not one to shirk his duty, and he knew that, whatever happened, he would do his utmost to fulfil an old man's dying wish: to close shut the jaws of Oblivion. Jauffre's shoes clicked on the stones behind Gorgoth.

The Orc was ready. Straightening to his full height, he turned. Jauffre held out an Akaviri dai-katana, a twin to the weapon strapped to the Breton's back. "I will join the Blades," he announced, his mighty voice resonating over the courtyard.

A ghost of a smile flickered over Jauffre's wizened face. "Very good," he replied. "Down on your knee. Repeat this oath after me." Gorgoth knelt in the Orc-fashion, left knee down, head bowed, right fist clenched on the ground beside his right foot, left fist clenched over his heart. "I, Gorgoth gro-Kharz, swear to protect and serve the Emperor of Tamriel with all my strength, his word being my command, my blood spilt before his, my life before his. I will serve with unquestioning obedience and unwavering loyalty until the Emperor releases me from this Oath, or death takes me."

Gorgoth repeated the Blades Oath without hesitation; his word of honour would bind him to that oath far tighter than any magical trickery. He would willingly die to uphold his word. "Rise, Knight Brother" Jauffre told him. The Breton handed Gorgoth his new dai-katana. "Use it well, in the service of the Emperor," intoned the Grandmaster, as Gorgoth bared an inch of steel and grunted in appreciation.

"You've displayed a surprising amount of trust in me," remarked Gorgoth, fitting the dai-katana to his belt. His legs were long enough to keep the tip of the weapon half a foot above the ground; it would do until he found a suitable belt or strap that would hold it to his back. "You can be assured that I will repay you."

"That's good to know," replied Jauffre, moving forward and leaning on the battlements. If the old Breton was cold in just his monk robes, he did not show it. "However, I am unsure what to do with your comrades. I'm not willing to invite them to join the Blades, yet they could be valuable in the days ahead." Jauffre gazed along the wall to where Ilend and Aerin were leaning at their ease. Both of them seemed to have forgotten that there were fires available in Cloud Ruler temple; they both seemed absorbed by the view.

"They can be of great use to us," observed Gorgoth. "We should keep them close. I am sure we'll have no problems convincing them to be of service; Ilend's motivation is revenge, while Aerin seems to hate boredom." The Orc turned back to the Breton. "We need to discuss a plan of action. What's our next move?"

"Our priority is the recovery of the Amulet of Kings, but we have no idea where it is at the moment." Jauffre's face twisted as he grimaced in frustration. "Fortunately, we have agents working on leads. The most promising lead we have at the moment is in the Imperial City. Baurus and Glenroy are working to find out anything they can about the cult that assassinated the Royal Family and planned the attack on Kvatch. When we get word of their progress back from them, I'll send you and possibly your companions to assist them in any way possible."

"What do we do in the meantime?" asked Gorgoth. He was an active kind of person; the idea of sitting around warming himself by the fire in Cloud Ruler Temple waiting for the progress of others did not endear itself to him.

Jauffre spread his arms wide. "Cyrodiil is your oyster. I'd rather you didn't leave the province; that'd make it easier for me to contact you. You'll probably want work to occupy you, I can understand that. The Fighter's Guild would probably be your best bet. I hear they're in particular need of numbers in Cheydinhal and Anvil."

Gorgoth nodded. "I was going to go to Anvil on business anyway," he muttered, recalling his promise to Agronak. "I might as well see what the Fighter's Guild has to offer." Gorgoth inwardly smiled as he remembered his previous dealings with the Fighter's Guild; it had ended with a very angry father and the Guild gaining a lot of land near Orsinium.

Jauffre smiled. "Good to hear it," he said. "I wouldn't want our newest Knight Brother growing fat and complacent out of inactivity. The West Barracks is full, but you can sleep in the East Barracks; barely anyone occupies it nowadays." The Breton turned and walked out along the battlements to the guard towers, exchanging a few words with the sentries. Gorgoth walked off in the opposite direction.

"That reminds me of the time when I swore my oath to the Count of Kvatch," observed Ilend as Gorgoth approached them, clearly having observed Gorgoth's earlier taking of the Blades Oath. "I was only nineteen at the time. Still, I don't regret it. The Guard taught me a lot."

"So, what goes on now, big guy?" asked Aerin, turning and leaning with her back against the wall.

"We find something to occupy ourselves while we wait," replied Gorgoth. "Baurus and Glenroy are investigating the cult that's behind this conspiracy. When Jauffre gets word from them, he'll send for us."

Ilend grunted. "Tell him that, if he needs me, he can find me at the Skingrad Fighters Guild." The Imperial seemed to have almost expected the long wait. "As long as I eventually see action against those fucking cretins, I can wait for months."

Aerin seemed to be less enthusiastic. "What do I do?" she whined. "It's so bloody boring in the Imperial City, and I'm not about to join the Fighter's Guild just ta wait for something."

"Ever been on a goblin hunt?" Ilend asked her, caressing his sword hilt as he did so. His daedric longsword was hanging from his belt easily enough, but he had yet to find a suitable scabbard. Aerin shook her head. "Well, it's anything but boring. Come with me to Skingrad, it's the best part of the country for it. Best hunt you'll ever go on." A smile spread over the Imperial's face. "Me, Parwen, and Ah-Malz had competitions whenever we went on a hunt, back in the day, to see who could kill the most. Ah, good times... it was when the leave wasn't so strict in the Guard."

"Well, at least it sounds more interesting than putting some poor kid to sleep in the Arena," sighed Aerin, shaking her head, her ponytail swaying. Gorgoth stepped back out of the way as her impressive auburn plumage missed him by inches. "What about you, big guy, what are you doing?" she asked Gorgoth. "I can't imagine you just sitting here twiddling your thumbs and getting philosophical."

"I'll be heading the same way as you, most likely," he grunted. "I'm going to Anvil on business. Might stop by the Fighter's Guild while I'm there. It's something to do. I'll stay the night here first. I could use a few good hours sleep in a good bedroll in the barracks."

"Ya know, you've got a point there, big guy," mumbled Aerin, turning away and stifling a jaw-cracking yawn. "Mainly thanks ta you, I don't think I've had what I'd call a full night's rest in Divines knows how long." The sun had drawn considerably closer to the horizon since they had arrived at Cloud Ruler Temple, and the approaching dusk was starting to banish what little warmth there was in the air. Aerin shivered, drawing Ilend's cloak and her own cloak more tightly around her. "I don't see much point in standing around freezing our arses off when we could be getting roasted by the fire," she observed.

"Well said," muttered Ilend. Aerin's mentioning of the cold had reminded him that he was standing on an exposed wall wearing nothing but some thin, southern clothing and chainmail, neither of which offered much insulation. "I think I recognised a couple of people from the Kvatch Guard who left a while back. Might be able to catch up with em over a beer or six."

Gorgoth said nothing, merely following them along the wall back to the courtyard. A handful of Blades were diligently practising their swordwork in the practise area, their individual skill with their elegant, deadly katanas evident in the way they moved and attacked. Braziers spread out in the courtyard gave at least a hint of warmth to those stood around them. The stairs leading to the finely-carved wood doors leading to the great hall were smaller than the entrance stairs, evidently not meant for the hooves of horses.

The doors were heavy, but Gorgoth pushed them both open effortlessly and stepped inside. Immediately a wave of heat washed over him, emanating from both the roaring fireplace at the far end of the hall and numerous torches fitted to wooden pillars. The Orc stepped forward to let his companions in, then shut the door behind them, cutting off the cold wind that was making nearby torches flicker.

Cloud Ruler Temple's great hall was large and cavernous, with a high ceiling. The wall were heavily decorated, some with Akaviri murals, some with Imperial wall hangings, but the largest section of the wall was reserved to display the katanas of notable Blades, their weapons that had served them faithfully being displayed to honour them long after their demise. There were numerous chairs and benches spread out in a haphazard fashion, taking up a large amount of the available floor space. A lot of the chairs were concentrated around the massive fireplace, which reached half to the roof. Aerin immediately moved towards it, shrugging off both her cloaks, and Ilend followed, deftly catching his own cloak as she tossed it to him with a murmur of thanks. Gorgoth followed more slowly, taking the time to take in every aspect of the great hall.

"Those Akaviri sure did know how to build, didn't they?" grunted a grizzled Imperial, a Captain judging by his armour, who had been idly leaning against a pillar. "Names Steffan, Knight Captain. Been stationed here for a lot of winters, and looking at the place and the view never gets old."

"Good looking, for sure, but for durability, you want Orc-forts," replied Gorgoth, folding his arms and looking critically at an intricately carved pillar. "This looks elegant, but it won't stand up to many blows from an axe."

"Maybe not, but you can't deny that it's great stonework out there," responded Steffan. "Some real good craftsmanship, that is." He smirked and shook his head. "Heh, listen to me, prattling on about stonework when there are green warriors to train. I'm getting old." He straightened and gave a salute, fist to heart. "See you around, Knight Brother." Steffan turned on his heel and marched out of the great hall into the courtyard.

Gorgoth walked over to the fire, where Ilend, Aerin, and a handful of Blades were warming themselves. Laughter rippled through their ranks at some offhand comment made by Aerin as Gorgoth stepped up to warm himself. He largely ignored them and stared into the flickering flames, thinking about nothing in particular but allowing himself a few rare moments of relaxation. He registered the arrival of another Blade stepping up beside him, also looking into the fire, but it was only when she spoke that he turned his head slightly and recognised her.

"You appear to have come up in the world since we departed, prisoner," observed Captain Renault, her blue eyes reflecting the dancing flames. "I suppose I shouldn't really call you that now," she added with a wry smile. "I'll just need a bit of time to get used that a revolutionary sentenced to death is now a Knight Brother." She shook her head in mild disbelief.

"That's the first time I've ever been called a revolutionary," grunted Gorgoth. He wasn't surprised that the Blades at least knew why he had been in Cyrodiil, but he was confident that he had buried parts of his past so deeply that it would take enormous efforts to piece it together. Only one man knew everything about Gorgoth, and he was trusted. "It was a bit of wet work, that's all. Nothing revolutionary about it."

Renault nodded, pursing her lips. "I guess it was going a bit far," she admitted. "But you did commit an open act of rebellion and attempted to murder an Imperial citizen. Still, the Emperor pardoned you, and Jauffre seems to trust you. If you were ever going to betray us, you would probably have done so by now, so I'm prepared to trust you as well."

"Good to know that I can trust those who will be fighting alongside me," grunted Gorgoth. He turned his head slightly to look the Breton in the eyes. She returned his gaze without blinking, retaining the natural Breton haughtiness despite having to stretch her neck in order to meet his eyes. "How much have you discovered about this ex-prisoner through your digging?"

"Very little," sighed Renault, a flicker of annoyance playing across her face. "You seem to be skilled at burying your past, Gorgoth. You work as a freelance spellsword in Orsinium, seemingly an ordinary occupation, except for two things; you have a solid working relationship with King Gortwog and might just be the most powerful mage in Orsinium."

A corner of Gorgoth's mouth twitched in what could be called a smile. "For all the Blades' vaunted experience, they cannot successfully investigate the past of a humble spellsword," he taunted. Renault's face stiffened. "I admit, though, that it would be a difficult task. You said it yourself; I bury my past well. I intend to keep it that way."

"I respect that. I'm sure you have your reasons." At this, Renault leaned in closer to him. "I'll admit, however, that you make me curious, Gorgoth. I'm sure you won't mind if I do a little extra digging in my free time?" An innocent smile spread over the Knight Captain's face as she turned to go, leaving Gorgoth alone, staring into the fire.

"Good luck, Captain," he murmured to himself. "You'll need it." Various people in Orsinium knew pieces of Gorgoth's past, some could give detailed information about some of his past doings, but only one man knew it all. Gorgoth trusted that man with his life and more. That ghost of a smile stayed for a few seconds before fading. A bedroll and sleep sounded good to him right now; building up hours of sleep now would allow him to go without when he needed to later.

As if they could read his thoughts – a disturbing idea – Ilend and Aerin appeared by his side. "The sun's gone down, and I'm tired, big guy," drawled Aerin, stifling a yawn. "I say we head ta the East barracks and hit the sheets. Your verdict?"

"You've come up with a good idea, Aerin. Try to keep it up, it's good for you." Gorgoth didn't wait for a response as he headed over to where he judged the East Barracks to be. Aerin, mouth still working to attempt to come up with a reply, fell in behind him, along with Ilend, who was yawning so widely his jaw muscles were locking. As the Imperial frantically punched himself in the chin to unlock the muscles and ease the pain, Gorgoth decided not to try his luck with the numerous doors that could lead anywhere and instead headed to the courtyard.

The dark red stain on the western horizon was all that remained of the sun's light, and Masser and Secunda were shining overhead instead, against a backdrop of a many-starred night. There were no clouds from horizon to horizon. The night air was chilled, meaning that Ilend and Aerin both shivered and walked quickly towards the East barracks, a long, low building sandwiched between the great hall and the stables. Gorgoth pushed open the plain wooden door and ducked inside, his bulk barely squeezing through the small doorway.

As expected, the barracks was a basic building; soldiers, even soldiers as prestigious as the Blades, only needed the most basic of accommodation. Rows apon rows of bedrolls stretched from end to end of the building. As Jauffre had mentioned, few were occupied. Weapon racks and armour stands lined the walls, bending under the weight of Akaviri katanas or the armour of the Blades. Personal possessions were presumably kept under the pillow or strewn around the owner's bedroll. Gorgoth and Ilend, both experienced soldiers, had expected something of the sort. Aerin simply grumbled about the lack of privacy, something that brought a smirk to Ilend's face.

"Aerin, before you collapse onto a bedroll and take your well-earned rest, I need a favour," grunted Gorgoth.

The mentioned Bosmer's head jerked round, and she raised a startled eyebrow as she looked up at Gorgoth. "Not like you ta ask favours, big guy," she drawled, turning to fully face him. "What is it?"

Gorgoth's hand twitched towards his long war braids, two thick coils of black hair that hung to his waist. "It's been a long time since my hair has been unbraided," he explained. "I normally unbraid it every night, but there has been no time for that recently. Doing it myself would be... complicated."

Aerin nodded hesitantly. "Yeah, I think I'm up ta that," she muttered uncertainly. Gorgoth nodded in thanks and proceeded to remove his armour, the clanking and crashing not being enough to wake the few Blades that were sleeping over in the far corner. Ilend was doing the same a few bedrolls down. After a few minutes, Gorgoth, now clad in only his loose-fitting cotton trousers, sat down cross-legged, motioning for Aerin to join him. He threw his head back, letting his braids hang to the floor, giving the Bosmer easy access.

"OK... give me a few minutes here," muttered Aerin, frowning as she concentrate on the Orc's hair. "It's the first time I've worked with someone else's hair."

"It's perfectly simple," rumbled Gorgoth, and proceeded to talk her through the process. Aerin's hands were swift and dexterous, and within minutes Gorgoth's fine, glossy black hair was flowing freely to his waist.

"That's... some pretty fine hair you've got here, big guy," murmured Aerin in an awestruck tone as she gently sifted her fingers through his hair. It was fine, silky, and smooth, not the type of hair she'd expected to find on a battle-hardened warrior. "I'd thought I'd find dried blood caked in your hair, but this is... good hair." Gorgoth snorted.

Ilend looked over at them from where he was pulling his shirt up over his head. "I thought it was only wives and lovers who did that," he said, a questioning tone in his voice but an impish grin on his face as he motioned at Aerin's hands in Gorgoth's hair.

The Bosmer's hands sprang away from the black curtain in front of her as if burned, but Gorgoth merely shrugged. "True, most often this task is performed by those you mention," he rumbled. "But merely because they are the most readily available. Anyone with delicate hands is good enough. Sometimes even my brothers of battle have unbraided each other's hair." Gorgoth's mouth twisted slightly as he looked down at his own massive hands. "My own fingers have always been too large and crude for such a task." Ilend remembered those fingers fumbling around the dagger hilt protruding from Aerin's stomach, unable to get a grip.

"I thought as much," muttered Aerin, shaking her head and shooting a glare at Ilend, but it contained no malice. She crawled over to a nearby bedroll and started to remove her own armour. Ilend's chainmail lay in a semi-neat pile at the foot of his bedroll, along with his shirt and socks. The Imperial himself was lying on his bedroll, arms behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. Gorgoth had got to his feet and was stretching his mighty frame, the green skin stretched taut over raw, strong muscle. Aerin frowned and, throwing off her boots, moved closer to get a better look at something that had caught her eye.

"Hey, big guy... what is that?" she asked, pointing at a wicked-looking scar that started in the centre of his stomach and ran down to his right leg, disappearing below his trousers. He had a few other, smaller scars, but this one stood out from the rest for a reason that she couldn't identify, apart from the fact that it seemed to be slightly darker in hue than the others, a faint hint of dark blue around the edge of the white scar tissue.

"A scar," grunted Gorgoth, relaxing his muscles and looking down at the inquisitive Wood Elf, making no effort to hide the old wound. "Proof that even I am mortal if confronted with an enemy more skilled than I." He sighed and tapped his canine. "These minor scratches are old scars," he growled, motioning to the handful of small scars, white lines that stood out from the green of his chest and back. "I received them before I knew how to heal myself. The one you noticed is more recent."

"So why didn't ya heal that one? That looks kinda deadly."

"There are some blades in existence that leave a mark that is hard to erase," explained Gorgoth. "I fought one who had such a blade, a few months ago. He was skilled enough to have earned the right to wield that blade. I eventually drove him off, but he had wounded me badly enough that I couldn't follow and finish him off."

"Wow. He must have had some skill with a blade." Aerin hadn't even considered that there might be someone who could best the mighty Orsimer before her in battle; his martial and magical might seemed to be undefeatable. Ilend snorted from his bedroll.

"No-one is perfect, Aerin," he said, his voice flat. "Try to live in the knowledge that there is always someone better than you. Might help keep you humble and on your guard." The Imperial's head rolled to the side, the light catching his blue eyes as he looked at her earnestly. "It might save your life one day. Pride comes before a fall."

"I'll take my chances, thanks," Aerin told him nervously, returning to her bedroll and leaving Gorgoth to trace his scar with a finger. She continued to remove her armour and pile it at the foot of her bedroll, in a fashion similar to Ilend. Kneeling, she twisted her arms behind her head to release the simple leather band that held her hair up in its simple, long ponytail. As she did so, she caught sight of Ilend, still awake, furtively leering at her chest, which was thrust out due to the position of her arms. Shooting him a glare that threatened him with a dagger to his genitals if he didn't avert his eyes, she tossed the leather band to the floor, her auburn hair cascading down around her shoulders, reaching her waist.

"Sleep deeply. Do not be troubled by dreams. May you live to see the morning." With those slightly unsettling words, Gorgoth pulled his blanket over him, settled down on his bedroll, and closed his eyes. Within minutes, his breathing slow and regulated.

"Wish I knew how he drops off to sleep so quickly," grumbled Ilend, jerking his own blanket over him. The Imperial's height meant that the ends of his feet stuck out under the end, a fact he was choosing to ignore. "Night, Aerin. What he said, but less cryptic." Aerin stifled a giggle and closed her eyes, rolling onto her side. Tired by the hard riding of the past days, sleep came to claim her quickly.

The morning sunlight was swift to enter the barracks through the east-facing windows. Aerin was eased out of her sleep by a hot beam of sunlight draping itself over her sleeping body. She slowly eased herself up, groaning as she worked a crick in her neck. Sleeping on the floor on bedrolls might be good enough for soldiers once they got used to it, but not for a Bosmer used to sleeping in a soft bed every night. Still, it had been better than sleeping on the bare grass, a common occurrence when travelling on the road with Gorgoth.

Rubbing her eyes, Aerin rose to her knees and abruptly stopped. She knew she probably shouldn't be surprised at the sight of Gorgoth combing his hair in a mirror after what she had seen of his hair last night, but it was still a shocking sight to see the Orc performing such a task. Gorgoth acknowledged her presence with a grunt and went on combing. Aerin shook her head in mild disbelief and straightened, grunting with effort as she stretched her body and limbs. Remembering suddenly that Ilend could be leering at her, she quickly spun to face him, only to find that he was still asleep, an arm thrown over his eyes. Aerin paused for a second to admire his taut muscles, fully visible due to most of the blanket being ripped off; while the Imperial looked insignificant when compared to Gorgoth, he was still considerably muscled, presumably due to the rigorous training of the Kvatch Guard.

Ilend stirred and muttered something. Not wanting to be caught looking at him after the events of last night, Aerin hastily turned away and started donning her leathers. Behind her, she could hear Ilend dragging himself to his feet and walking over to Gorgoth. She didn't expect to hear him to ask to borrow Gorgoth's comb.

"I normally don't bother," he explained. "But it's starting to itch, and I really hope I don't have lice, they're a bugger to hunt down." Seeing Aerin looking at him with a raised eyebrow, he growled and ran a hand through his hair. "Yes, Aerin, men other than Gorgoth also care about their hair."

"It's not actually my comb," stated Gorgoth. "I happened to find it under the bedroll next to mine. I hope its owner doesn't hold a grudge against me leaving Orcish hair in their comb."

Aerin snorted with suppressed laughter and went back to donning her armour. She did her best to ignore the weight of Ilend's eyes on her as she squeezed into the tight boiled leather, which she'd always used as an outfit to attract exactly those kind of stares rather than to be of any actual use as protection in combat. The Bosmer was simply uncomfortable with people leering at her when she didn't intend them to.

Ilend had in fact turned away and was inspecting the Akaviri katanas and dai-katanas lining the weapons racks that decorated the walls. Every single one was sharp and battle-ready, in perfect condition, with no marks or any hint of dents or scratches. The armour of the Blades positioned on armour stands was in similarly good condition. "Better equipped than the bloody Guard, at least," muttered Ilend, shooting one last wistful look at the katanas before stomping back to his bedroll.

Gorgoth, having finished with his hair, tossed the comb to Ilend and examined his own dai-katana. "I have often fought with bound dai-katanas," he mused, baring an inch of the finest tempered steel available in the Empire. "They are good weapons, and truly deadly in the right hands. Some elite swordsmen have fighting styles involving the katana that look more like a dance than a fight; if you can call war poetic, then they are the embodiment of it. It's Redguards, mostly." It wasn't clear if the Orc was talking to himself or them, so Ilend and Aerin kept their contributions to polite grunts. Gorgoth rammed the dai-katana back into its scabbard.

"Aerin, I need another favour," he rumbled, rising to his knees. "I would prefer it I did not have to braid my own hair. It is difficult to do it yourself." The Bosmer grunted, finished securing her boiled leather, and moved over until she was sitting behind the Orc. Once again, he talked her through the process of braiding his hair into a pair of waist-length, thick, heavy war braids. Aerin managed to restrain herself from mentioning the quality of his hair. The warrior-shaman sat as still as a rock until she was done.

"You have my gratitude," he grunted, rising to his feet and looking around for his shirt and armour. If he really was grateful, none of it was evident in his voice, which remained the same deep, emotionless rumble as usual. He picked up his cotton undershirt - which after days of hard use looked slightly ragged - and donned it, reaching for his boots at the same time. Aerin turned back to her bedroll and attached her bristling quiver to her hip, then picked up the unstrung Trueshot and thrust the composite bow through a loop in a belt that stretched across her back, designed for the purpose. Pulling on her sword belt, she aligned it so that the hilts of her two shortswords crossed each other over her stomach. She turned to find that Gorgoth had already somehow managed to don the lower half of his armour.

"Do you use magic ta help ya with that, big guy?" she asked, somewhat incredulous. In the past, she'd seen some guards employed by her father take up to as long a half an hour to don a suit of armour of the complexity of Gorgoth's. At least knights had servants to do the job for them. Ilend, who had just finished tightening the straps of his own chainmail, was looking on, nodding in admiration and understanding.

"No, I just have a decade and a half of practise," replied Gorgoth, stamping his feet to settle them in his boots. "My Orcish heavy battle armour is far more complex than this basic steel suit. This is simple in comparison." Aerin shrugged and left the warrior-shaman to it, walking to the door and wrenching it open.

Harsh, bright sunlight enveloped the Bosmer, and she screwed her eyes shut, blinded by the sudden invasion of light. She instinctively moved an arm to shield her eyes from the intrusive sun, instantly aware of the cool breeze wafting through the door, chilling her skin. Lowering her arm and opening her eyes fractionally, she could make out the sun poised above the Jerall Mountains, burning brilliantly in a cloudless sky. The shadows of the mountains were shortening, falling far short of the Temple. Blades sentries were patrolling the battlements and manning the sentry towers, and there were already some practising swordplay in the courtyard, the ringing of metal on metal reaching Aerin's sensitive ears.

Ilend appeared behind her and leaned on the doorframe, screwing up his own eyes as he looked out past her at the rising sun and the scenery. "Now that's a bloody good view to start your day with," he commented, a smile creeping onto his face as his eyes slowly became accustomed to the light. His stomach audibly growled, and his smile grew broader. "Speaking of which, this morning could be improved by getting something good down your gullet. Know where you can get something to eat?"

"I'd say heading to the great hall then following our noses would be a good bet," replied Aerin, Ilend's close proximity to her making clear the fact that he hadn't washed since the Battle of Kvatch. Then again, neither had she, so she was likely to smell nearly as bad as him. Fortunately for the both of them, the wind helped to repress the smell of unwashed bodies. "Come on, I'm just as hungry as you are," muttered Aerin, walking out into the courtyard, heading towards the great hall, ignoring the wind's cold touch. Ilend fell in beside her.

The great hall seemed to be completely unchanged from when they had first entered; the only difference was that the Blades sitting around the fire were different. Aerin's suggestion of 'following their noses' proved to be easier than first thought; the smell of food seemed to come easier to the hungry, and the duo swiftly found themselves in what was the Cloud Ruler Temple canteen. Soon they were feasting on what was standard fare in Cloud Ruler Temple to blunt the edge of hunger that appeared without fail after a hard days exertion in the cold training grounds: plates piled high with bacon, eggs, mushrooms, sausages, potatoes, beans and tomatoes.

"I thought you Bosmer ate nothing but meat?" asked Ilend through a mouth crammed full of food.

"The only plants we don't touch are those grown in Valenwood," sighed Aerin, rolling her eyes at Ilend's ignorance. "Besides, I wasn't really brought up with that Y'ffre stuff anyway. I'm not really a Valenwood Bosmer; I was born near Arenthia, but after two years we moved to Cyrodiil on a semi-permanent basis. I've only ever visited Valenwood ever since, and not in the last few years."

Ilend grunted in response, his mouth still too full of food to articulate an understandable reply. Both looked up briefly as Gorgoth appeared and thumped down across from them, bringing with him a plate that strained to withstand the weight of the food piled high upon it. "Eat a lot when you can," muttered Gorgoth. "Every meal might be your last; get enough energy from it so that it won't have to be." With that typically cryptic statement, he started eating, oblivious to his comrade's bemused stares.

"Has he always been like that?" Ilend asked Aerin in a low voice, wiping the grease from his chin.

"I've only known him a few days longer than you have, guardsman," muttered Aerin in response, shaking her head. "I think I might have seen him smile once. You'd get more emotion out of a rock."

"I'll take that as a compliment," grunted Gorgoth, who had evidently overheard them. He didn't pause in the relentless attack of his food until he had reduced the enormous mound in front of him to a few scraps that would later be given to the dogs. Ilend and Aerin, still unfinished, both looked up in surprise when he let forth a sickly growl.

"Urgh... I knew I shouldn't have eaten that much," he muttered, clenching his teeth and staggering to his feet. One hand went to his stomach. "I should have known I need to balance out a deficit, not pile it all on in one go..." the Orc groaned, turned, and threw up most of the breakfast that he had just consumed. Ilend immediately leapt to his feet, but Gorgoth waved him back down, snarling and gripping the back of his chair for support, one hand clamped to his stomach. "I can't eat massive meals or overly rich food," he explained, his face a slightly more pallid shade of green than normal. "The blade that gave me that scar ripped up my stomach. I did what I could, but... that blade is no normal blade." Wiping the back of his mouth with his hand, Gorgoth stomped out of the canteen, waving off the concerned chef.

Aerin and Ilend exchanged looks, then stared down at their plates, the piles of food mostly gone. "You know, I don't think I'm hungry any more," announced Aerin, throwing down her knife and fork and rising. Ilend snorted in disapproval, but made no move to finish off his breakfast. The Bosmer led the way out, stepping delicately around the large puddle of partially digested food. "It's not like him to show weakness of that kind," remarked Aerin as they stepped back into the great hall.

"It is a comparatively new wound," retorted Gorgoth, who had been leaning on a nearby pillar. "Three months old, I think. I'm still getting accustomed to it." The Orc's mouth was twisted into a grimace of distaste, and he muttered some harsh-sounding words in his own language. He looked up and forced his face back to its normal neutrality. "We should leave soon," he advised. "That is, if we're travelling together. Skingrad lies on the road to Anvil. With the rise in banditry, it would be wise, and I am in no real hurry."

"Well, a good mage can be useful for protection and the like, even if I always did like to rely on my own steel," replied Ilend. "Still, I see no reason why we can't join forces. It'd be stupid not to, seeing as we're going the same way anyway."

Aerin nodded in agreement. "What he said," she told Gorgoth, pointing at Ilend. "And, ta be honest, the sooner we leave, the better. The weather seems OK at the moment, and I sure wouldn't like ta see how cold it gets when a rainstorm catches ya out in the open."

"Saddle the horses," instructed Gorgoth, straightening and checking that his mace was secure in his belt. "It'd reassure me to talk to Martin briefly before we go. Meet you in the stables." Not waiting for a response, he turned and stomped across the great hall, entering a corridor that presumably led to the heir's quarters.

"As far as I can remember, the stables are somewhere behind the East Barracks," said Ilend, rubbing his chin. He'd taken the opportunity to shave shortly after waking, though the cold water and basic razor hadn't provided the best job. "You got everything you need?" Aerin nodded, taking her rolled-up cloak off her back and throwing it around her shoulders. "Good. Like he said, there's no point in waiting around."

The stables were easily accessed from the courtyard, which seemed logical; horses needed more space than men and mer to manoeuvre. Within minutes, Firebrand and Ilend's chestnut, which he had taken to calling Javelin, were saddled and impatient to go. Vorguz proved more difficult to prepare, having a fierce temper when roused from a well-deserved sleep in a warm stable, but by the time Gorgoth had arrived, all three horses were ready to leave Cloud Ruler Temple.

Once they had left through the front gate, they all mounted and took one look back at the fortress of the Blades. It dominated the horizon, a sanctuary whose appearance was a mixture of beauty and readiness, readiness for any dark time that might fall upon it. "Like Steffan said... damn good stonework," mused Gorgoth. "I just hope that it will not have to be tested in a siege in the near future." He turned and booted Vorguz to a trot. "Come on. I am in no hurry, but I despise wasting time."

* * *

**A/N: You can probably tell by now that I like to write long chapters. DO NOT forget to review. If more people review, who knows... I might be more inclined to motivate myself to write faster.**


	14. Blood and Pain

**A/N: I assure you that it's pure coincidence that three of my chapters are now entitled 'Blood and ...'; I'm just bloody awful at chapter-naming sometimes. Moving on, thanks to all who reviewed; Chapter 13 was my joint-most reviewed chapter, and, as we know, reviews are always a good thing. Keep it up, my loyal readers. ;)**

**Commentaholic: Fluff? o.O. In any case, it's unlikely that Aerin will think of Gorgoth as 'buff' any time soon; he does happen to be an Orc, and therefore considered quite ugly by most other races of Tamriel.**

**Nomz: Fear not, you'll all be learning a lot about Gorgoth and his past as this story progresses... and, later in this chapter, I'm throwing something else into the mix. And, yes, I like my OCs, but I also like taking Bethesda-made characters and giving them something more than a generic guard personailty. Means I don't have to keep thinking up names. :P  
**

**Anony moose: If I 'shoved romance in your faces', you'd probably be flaming me instead of encouraging me to write more. Yes, I'm that bad at romance. Still, thanks for the review.**

**To my regulars and other reviewers, thanks for reviewing. And now I'll do you all a favour by ending this Author's Note and letting you get on with what you clicked this link to do. (Oh, and don't forget to review)  
**

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Blood and Pain**

Despite claiming that he was in no hurry, Gorgoth continued to set a fast pace, growling that only complete idiots wasted time. Neither of the others complained; the speed was fast, but manageable and not too taxing on man, mer or beast. They didn't stop in Bruma, riding swiftly through it as they had done the day before, the only difference being the direction. The gate guards seemed just as lethargic, barely moving in order to acknowledge the three heavily armed strangers riding through their city. By midday, Bruma was long behind them.

Their journey was swift and easy. Numerous bandit gangs plaguing the roads evidently thought them too tough to be worth it, and retreated back to their camps to await a nice safe merchant train to ambush. The weather remained good as they continued on down the Silver Road until they reached the road that ringed the shores of Lake Rumare. They stayed the night in the peaceful settlement of Aleswell, before setting off again early the next morning. By midafternoon, they had reached Weye, and were preparing to ride on to Skingrad when Aerin reined in.

"Hey, I've got something ta tie up in the City," she announced, waving a hand in the direction of White Gold Tower. "Go on without me, I'll catch up and meet you in Skingrad."

Ilend nodded. "I'll be in the Fighter's Guild when you get there," he told her as she turned Firebrand towards the bridge. Within seconds, the Bosmer was lost in a cloud of dust as she sped Firebrand up to a gallop. "Wonder what she's so eager to get back to," pondered Ilend, scratching his stubble as he turned Javelin to follow Gorgoth down the road leading to Skingrad.

Aerin quickly stabled Firebrand at the Chestnut Handy Stables and hurried through the Imperial City to the Waterfront. Within an hour, she was approaching her ancient, rickety, badly-built shack. She'd bought it three years ago when she'd first joined the Arena, mainly because, being dirt cheap, it was the only one she could afford; her father had been livid at her running off and joining the Arena and so had refused to support her financially, despite being able to live quite comfortably off the profits of his trade.

Turning the corner into the street, Aerin stopped dead. Her shack's door was smashed in, hanging weakly from its groaning hinges and swaying slightly in the wind. She'd been expecting something of the sort – the Waterfront shacks might as well have no doors – but it still saddened and angered her that someone had ransacked her home. She moved forward with a purposeful stride, keeping one hand on the hilt of her blade. She'd almost reached the doorway when someone stepped out.

Aerin had half of her blade out of its scabbard before realising who it was. "Easy there, Aerin," laughed Branwen, leaning back on the doorframe. "I didn't like breaking down your door, I'd like disarming you even less." The Redguard looked completely at ease in her yellow-dyed Light Raiment, with an iron round shield on her back and a steel longsword at her hip.

Smiling and sheathing her blade, Aerin moved forward to give the Arena gladiator a friendly punch on the shoulder. "I should have known you'd break down me door if I went off for more than a week without telling ya," she laughed. The two had met a few weeks ago when training in the Arena grounds, and friendship had instantly sparked. Apparently, Branwen had come up in the world since Aerin had last seen her; the dents in her shield and scratches on her raiment spoke of quite a few battles, and her posture spoke of supreme confidence in her own abilities. "You look like you've been handling yourself pretty good without me to look out for you."

Branwen's smile grew broader. "You could say that," she smirked. "I'm Gladiator rank now. Seems I'm a natural, according to Owyn." At the mention of the Blademaster, a shadow passed over the Redguard's tanned face, but Aerin ignored it.

"Gladiator?" she squealed, half in indignation, half in delight. "By the Divines, you've done more in a week than what I had ta do in a few _years_. What in Oblivion have ya been doing ta Owyn, screwing him?"

Branwen looked repulsed by the very thought. "I don't think so, somehow," she replied. "Saliith's a Gladiator as well, in the same time, and I really doubt he'd be screwing Owyn, so it has to be something else other than that." The Redguard paused for dramatic effect. "Maybe it's because we've both been fighting at least two battles every day since we joined."

Aerin whistled in admiration. "That's some pretty serious fighting," she muttered, leaning on her doorframe across from her friend. "But, then ya always were more dedicated ta that sandpit than I was. How is old Twitch-Tail?"

Branwen smirked. "You know how much he hates you calling him that," she giggled, looking at something over Aerin's shoulder. The Bosmer frowned, then gasped as a strong, scaled arm wrapped itself around her throat as Saliith emerged from her shack.

"Yes, she does know how much I hate it," rasped Saliith. It was always hard to tell with Argonians, but by the sound of his voice, Branwen could tell that he wasn't angry. Not that it was much comfort to Aerin, who was in the process of having her hair put into complete disarray by the enthusiastic lizard. "It's good to see you back, Aerin. It got boring without you prancing around on the Basin of Renewal after every battle."

Aerin wrenched herself free of the Argonian and pouted up at him, making some futile attempts to rearrange her ruined hair. "You exaggerate, Saliith," she muttered. "I only ever did that when drunk."

"Ah, yes, I remember trying to tempt you into drinking the Feed Bag dry before every battle you fought," recalled Saliith, his voice wry. "It worked sometimes, if my memory serves me right. Cost me a fortune before I could really afford it, but I've paid Delos back by now. Worth every drake."

Aerin growled and jerked the leather band out of her hair, letting it fall free to her waist. She hated having her hair loose, but it was either that or put up with a mangled ponytail. "So, Aerin, where have you been all this time?" questioned Branwen. "It's been, what, nearly two weeks now?" She looked to Saliith for confirmation, and the lizard nodded, folding his arms over his blue-dyed Light Raiment and leaning back against Aerin's shack, tail twitching impatiently.

"I haven't really been keeping track of time," admitted Aerin. "As for what I've been doing... would ya believe me if I said I was hauled to Kvatch by a massive Orc, went to Oblivion and back, retook the bloody city, saved the heir of Uriel Septim, and guarded him against assassins until he reached sanctuary?" She looked up at both of them with an arched eyebrow.

Saliith was the first to burst out laughing, and Branwen's resistance crumpled a moment later, as she clutched her sides and howled with laughter. "Ah, Aerin, you always were the funny one," choked Saliith, attempting to straighten himself against the side of the shack with tears of mirth pouring down his scaled face. The Argonian's shaking was actually making the entire shack tremble; he was fairly tall for his race, and his intense training had meant that not an inch of fat had remained on his body. He was probably quite capable of bringing down the rotting structure using nothing but his bare hands, though the same could be said for Branwen, or, indeed, Aerin herself.

The Bosmer had kept her face impassive, folding her arms and leaning on the wall of her shack, one foot crossing the other ankle. When they had recovered, and asked her what she had really been doing, she answered, with no change of expression: "I was hauled to Kvatch by a massive Orc, went to Oblivion and back, retook the bloody city, saved the heir of Uriel Septim, and guarded him against assassins until he reached sanctuary."

This time, they didn't laugh. While it was impossible to tell what emotion Saliith was registering, the shock was evident on Branwen's face. Now it was Aerin's turn to start laughing, as the two gladiators slowly exchanged perplexed looks. "You know, the weird thing is, I actually believe her," rasped Saliith, slowly shaking his head. Branwen nodded in agreement, running a hand through her black hair, tied tightly in a multitude of swept-back braids. "So, Aerin," he said once the Bosmer had stopped howling with laughter. "If you were guarding the future Emperor, as you say, why are you back here?"

"He cut us loose for a while," replied Aerin, still wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "My comrades were on their way ta Skingrad; I stopped off here ta pick up a few things." She indicated her shack's interior, which was as messy as ever, with a generous increase of both dust and wood splinters from the ravaged door. "Don't worry about breaking in, I wasn't planning on returning here any time soon, and there's barely anything of value in there anyway." Moving inside, the Bosmer quickly grabbed a handful of small bags, all containing varying amounts of cash, and threw them haphazardly into a small drawstring bag. Ignoring the books crammed into the miniature bookshelf, she grabbed a few spare arrows, rammed them into her quiver, and picked up the drawstring bag, pulling it shut and slinging it over her right shoulder.

As she emerged back into the sunlight, Saliith cleared his throat, a dry, rasping sound. "So, uh, have you succeeded in getting the future Emperor of Tamriel into your bed yet?" he asked, his unreadable face probably meant to be a picture of innocence. Aerin sent him a cold glare that could probably dissolve a lesser man into incomprehensible gibbering, but Saliith merely snorted with laughter. "Just wondering," he defended.

"Just for your information, Twitch-Tail, I _am_ still a virgin," snarled Aerin, before turning and stalking off.

"Somehow," murmured Saliith, keeping his voice low and quaking with suppressed laughter. Branwen sighed in exasperation and hurried to catch up with Aerin.

"So, are you heading off now? Not even stopping by at the Feed Bag for a drink?" asked Branwen, falling in alongside, matching the shorter Bosmer's pace easily. "Would be good to see a bit more of you."

"Yeah, well, thing is, I told em it'd only be a brief stopover..."

"Come on, Aerin, since when have you been known to run from the action?" asked Saliith, appearing at Aerin's other side. "Me and Branwen have both got big matches soon today, according to Owyn. Make a few drakes, have a laugh at the idiots trying to kill us, what do ya say?" The Argonian's scaled hands were resting casually on the fine steel shortswords he was wearing on each hip, and the numerous throwing knives on his back glittered in the sunlight. Apparently, he knew how to use them.

Aerin squirmed uncomfortably between the two desires, but eventually the desire to stay won; Ilend wasn't about to go anywhere soon once he got to the Skingrad Fighter's Guild. The delay of a few hours, or even a day, wouldn't affect matters much. She nodded. "Ok, sure, just make sure ya win, or I'll dig ya up and claim me lost money back." Sniggering, she led the way out of the Waterfront through the back alleys she knew so well, and headed across the City to the Arena.

The sun was still well above the horizon when the three gladiators approached Hundolin. "Bet on the Blue team first," Saliith told Aerin. "Owyn normally sends me out first, and, if he doesn't, I'll get him to change his mind somehow." Aerin snorted, knowing how hard it was to get the Blademaster to change his mind, but walked up to Hundolin and put a hundred drakes on the Blue team. The Bosmer filed the transaction carefully in his notebook and put the bag of gold in the massive chest sitting on the table behind him.

"Good luck, you two," Aerin told her fellow gladiators as she headed through the door that led to the sands. They smiled and nodded, each loosening their blades in their scabbards. "Spill some blood for me."

"So, who do you think Owyn is going to throw at me next?" asked Saliith as he and Branwen descended the stairs into the Bloodworks. "To be honest, there's not many among you Yellows who can stop me when I'm in form."

Branwen's lip curled, but the Argonian wasn't boasting, it was the simple truth; Saliith was being tipped as the next challenger of Agronak gro-Malog. She herself was an extremely capable gladiator, but she'd been as surprised as anyone when it became evident that her comrade-in-training for all those years had outstripped her so rapidly when they got down to business. That said, she doubted she'd ever find a better comrade, and she knew a few tricks that he wasn't aware of. She'd been able to surprise him in training a few times recently.

Owyn looked up as they approached and turned to face them, a cruel smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth. Both gladiators inwardly winced. When Owyn had that smile and that gleam in his eyes, he had a challenging match planned, the kind that left gladiators checking whether they still had any limbs left. "Good to see you two finally made it," he growled, spitting, the saliva splattering the bloodstained floor. "The crowds are gonna love this one, I can tell. Ysabel was wetting herself with excitement, near enough." The Redguard's smile broadened.

"Get on with it, Owyn," muttered Saliith lazily, leaning on a nearby weapon rack. "Tell me who to fight and I'll go upstairs and gut them." Few got away with talking to Owyn like that, but it was commonly accepted that if you hit Gladiator, you had his grudging respect for surviving so long.

"The way I see things, the only two competent people left in either team at Gladiator rank are you two," continued Owyn, ignoring Saliith. "I'm not about to feed you two scraps anymore." He paused, the evil grin now fully developed on his face. Saliith and Branwen frowned and exchanged confused glances. Neither of them liked the sound of Owyn's proposal. Seeing their discomfort, his grin deepened.

"Well, now the crowd get a fight to whet their appetites. You two are going up there, and only one is coming down. Give them a show." Owyn clapped his hands together and pointed them in the direction of their respective routes to the sands of the arena. Neither moved. Owyn lowered his arms, his face hardening.

"I am not prepared to walk into that Arena and fight to the death with Saliith," Branwen snarled, her teeth audibly grinding together. Saliith's hands had curled into fists, and a low growling sound emanated from his throat.

"You think you're my daughter?" asked Owyn contemptuously. "Prove it. Prove you're good enough to beat him, and I might actually believe you." A handful of gladiators had appeared, hands on weapons, who appeared ready to force them up the stairs to fight each other if need be.

Branwen's jaw worked as she attempted to form a response. "But, Owyn..." she begun, in a beseeching tone, but Owyn cut her off.

"Stop whining and do it," he barked, anger starting to become evident in his voice. "This is the Bloodworks, and I am the Blademaster. You do what I say willingly, or you get your throat slit and chucked into the sewers. Your fucking choice."

Saliith snarled, and would probably have attacked Owyn then and there, if not for the gladiators ready to step in between them. Growling in anger, he spat on Owyn's boot, turned, and stalked towards the Blue Team's ramp. "See you up there," he called to Branwen. The Redguard helplessly watched him go, then her shoulders slumped. She turned and walked towards the Yellow Team ramp, dragging her feet. She turned her head in time to see Owyn striding over to the stairs leading to the gladiator's watching area.

The thoughts and emotions racing through the heads of both gladiators as they made their long, slow ascent were similar; they'd known each other for years, and had developed a bond that went beyond friendship. Now they were going to attempt to kill each other in front of hundreds of baying gladiatorial fans. Both of them dreaded the moment when the gates would come screeching down, but this way, at least one of them would survive; the alternative would involve their bodies being thrown side by side into Lake Rumare.

Branwen could see Saliith's scales glittering in the sunlight even from all the way across the Arena. Shaking off the emotions that threatened to wash her away, Branwen hissed harshly and bared an inch of her blade, then checking the sharp-edged light iron shield, which she used as a weapon more than a blocking device. Gorgoth's advice had got both of them far. The Redguard knelt and washed her hands in the sand, giving her a better grip on her sword hilt. Saliith didn't need to take the same measures; his own scales provided more than enough grip to hold his deadly shortswords.

The announcer was in his element, striding grandly about in his box and bombastically waxing lyrical about the upcoming battle. Branwen ignored him and focused on Saliith. Across the expanse of the Arena, their eyes met. At the moment, the announcer finished, the gates dropped, and the crowds roared. The two gladiators walked slowly across the sands until they were within arm's length of each other, never breaking eye contact. The noise of the crowd abated to a low hum.

Neither spoke; the look in their eyes was enough to express their thoughts to each other, after years of comradeship. Saliith slowly extended his right hand. Branwen grasped it, squeezed it. They pulled each other into a fierce hug that was strong enough to make their ribs creak. "Whatever happens, our souls will meet again in Aetherius," muttered Branwen, her mouth close to Saliith's ragged ear. The Argonian muttered something in assent, and they drew apart, each walking backwards a few paces.

Saliith's shortswords could be drawn quicker than Branwen's longsword, and it took her a few precious seconds to get her shield off her back. By that time, the Argonian Gladiator was rushing forward, jumping forward and slashing both swords down at the Redguard. Branwen rolled through his legs, coming up in time to see the Argonian recover from his own roll and turn to face her. The sunlight slashed off the throwing knife as he threw it, his motion almost too quick for the eye to see. The knife made a solid _thunk_ as it embedded itself in Branwen's shield.

Before his knife had stopped vibrating, Saliith had once again launched himself at Branwen, twin shortswords striking so fast that to the audience they were blurs, extensions of his arms that did his merciless bidding. Branwen was forced back by the sheer ferocity of the assault, barely able to block the Argonian's lightning-quick strikes, let alone launch an attack of her own. After driving her across half the Arena, Saliith locked blades with her, drove the other blade deep into the iron of her shield, and darted forward, jaws open, razor-sharp rows of teeth visible, eager to meet her exposed throat. Branwen ducked at the last second and rammed her head into Saliith's throat, pushing her body forward and forcing him back. He let go of the sword embedded in her shield and spun out of her reach, reaching for a knife, throwing it.

The Redguard had been occupied with trying to get the shortsword out of her shield, and couldn't duck in time. Saliith's knife sliced open her right forearm and continued on, sinking into the sands somewhere behind her. Branwen cursed, but had no time to be distracted by the blood running down her arm and smearing the sand covering her palm; Saliith was once again rushing forward. He pivoted on one leg and executed a brutal roundhouse kick that sent the Redguard staggering back, reeling from the blow and struggling to draw breath. Saliith gave her no respite, ruthlessly advancing, moving into a forward flip that turned into an overhead jumping cleave with his sword held in both hands. The slightly curved blade swished through the air inches from Branwen's face as she kept staggering back.

Saliith quickly recovered from his miss. He sheathed his sword and threw two throwing knives in quick succession. One clattered off the edge of Branwen's shield, while the other scored her cheek and severed her left ear. Biting her lip to hold back her yelp of pain, the Redguard planted her feet, ignoring the burning pain on the side of her head and the blood trickling down her chin with some effort, and was ready for Saliith when he advanced again. Ducking under another throwing knife, Branwen barged into the Argonian's torso, his attempted slash grazing off her raiment. Saliith staggered back, and Branwen darted forward slashing down towards his stomach. As he parried the blow, her sharp-edged shield made contact with him, slicing his right shoulder open and smashing his head sideways. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, the Argonian growled and grabbed the hilt of the shortsword that was protruding from Branwen's shield. He wrenched it free at the cost of being sliced across the forearm. Both gladiators fell back to regroup.

Once again, their eyes met, but this time, they conveyed no emotion. Both were entirely focused on the task at hand; the fact that they had been as close as siblings for years was not gone from either mind, but it was hovering around the edges, kept out by the mental wall constructed by each to help focus their mind and energies on the combat. Blood dripped onto the sands from each of them as they circled each other, both of them wounded in the arm, with Branwen missing her left ear. Neither had any fatal injuries, or wounds that would slow them down. The crowd was fully voicing its desire for more blood to stain the sands.

Saliith moved first, dashing forward in an attempt to get past Branwen's guard. The Yellow team Gladiator smashed her shield into his face, forcing his head back, and got a line of burning pain down her ribs in return as the Argonian's slash missed her stomach and sliced open her side. Branwen winced but pressed forward, knocking aside Saliith's defence and delivering a blow that would have disembowelled him if he hadn't spun to deflect the full force of the slash. The Redguard kicked him in the back of the knee and he fell to his knees with his back to her. Letting forth a war cry, Branwen swung for his head and missed entirely as her opponent rolled forward. Overbalancing, she was unprepared for Saliith as he flipped to his feet and delivered a vicious, piercing slash to her chest. The sheer pain of the Argonian's blade slicing through her torso was enough to shock Branwen into dropping her longsword. Within seconds, Saliith had thrust both shortswords into her stomach up to the hilt, the ends of both blades poking out of her back.

As Saliith stepped back, Branwen looked down at his two swords, then back up at him. Her tanned face was smeared with the blood from her ear, but her deep brown eyes were fully focused on her killer. Her comrade. A look of sorrow passed over her face as blood spurted from her mouth. Knees buckling, she fell backwards towards the blood-drenched sands. Saliith darted forward and caught her, gently lowering his fallen friend down. The enormity of the battle's end was starting to sink into the Argonian as he knelt at Branwen's side, hand trembling as he pushed away a stray strand of hair from her face.

"Well... fought," gurgled Branwen, struggling to speak, blood clouding her once-strong voice. "I guess... this is... the end, huh?" The dying Redguard made a feeble attempt to smile. "At least... I went out... in style..."

Saliith struggled to speak, the words fouling in his throat, refusing to come out. The entire Arena was silent except for Branwen's breath rattling in her throat. "We always knew this would happen one day," he managed eventually. "But now that it's happened..." He shook his head, his breath leaving him in one, long, shaky sigh. His hands began to shake violently. "Branwen, I'm-" The Gladiator cut him off.

"Don't... don't regret this, Saliith," Branwen paused to cough violently, blood spraying over her face. Blood was already pooling around her. "Go on, and... fulfil our dream... reach for the heights..." Saliith clenched his fists in a futile effort to stop his hands shaking. "Worry not... we'll meet again... in Aetherius..." Branwen hacked up some more blood and was still, her eyes glazing over, still staring up at the best friend she had ever known. Saliith clenched his jaw shut and closed her eyes with a trembling hand before straightening.

The Arena was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Not even the announcer said a word. Maybe he knew that Saliith wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone who made even the slightest sound. The Argonian bent and picked up his shortswords. Without taking another look at Branwen, perhaps unable to, he turned and walked slowly back to the Blue team tunnel, head down, wounds still dripping blood. Anyone would think that he had been defeated, instead of having just overcome the biggest challenge of his career so far.

After washing and healing his wounds in the Basin of Renewal, Saliith stripped off his Blue team light raiment, piece by piece. Wearing nothing but his sword belt and ragged cloth trousers, the Argonian marched up to Owyn and rammed the raiment into his chest. The Blademaster said nothing, his face just as unreadable as the Argonians. He held out a substantial bag of money, letting Saliith's raiment clatter to the floor. Saliith grabbed the bag of money and turned to leave. "You'll be back, Hero," called Owyn after him.

Saliith, halfway to the exit, stiffened and turned slowly, anger evident in his snarl. "I know," he rasped. Making no further comment, he continued on his way out. No gladiator dared say a word until the door had swung shut behind him.

Emerging from the Bloodworks, Saliith was confronted with the sight of Aerin glaring down at Hundolin, her height of just over five feet making her very tall by Bosmeri standards, which was evidently helping in this situation. Hundolin was visibly cowering, attempting to back away from the furious archer. His guards looked on, hands on cudgels. "I was merely informing you that you have won two hundred septims," Hundolin was whimpering.

Aerin's voice was soft and dangerous. "Do you really think I care about your fucking gold when one of my friends is lying dead in there?" she snarled, her voice low as she gestured towards the Arena. "Keep the bloody gold; use it to pay for a decent funeral." Hundolin's relief was evident as the Bosmer turned away.

Upon seeing Saliith standing at the entrance to the Bloodworks Aerin's expression softened, and she extended a hand to him. "We need to get away from here," she muttered to him. Saliith nodded dumbly and took her hand, his overwhelmed brain unable to think straight any more. She led him away from the Bloodworks, towards the Market District, presumably to attempt to get him completely drunk. He grunted and wrenched his hand free, stumbling over to the area where he and Branwen had used to train. They'd trained there yesterday, as carefree as any two gladiators could be. The stones were smooth where incessant training over the years had worn them down. Saliith knelt to touch them, feel their familiar smoothness.

Aerin moved to stand next to him and gripped his shoulder. She made no attempt to speak; she knew that anything she said couldn't ease the pain she knew the Argonian was suffering. Saliith's hands, tracing the stonework, started to tremble again. His memory reached back over the years, remembering all the good times he and Branwen had shared, many of them on this very slab of stone. The Argonian's entire body started to shake violently as her face invaded his thoughts. He'd never see her again, and he, her killer, was directly responsible. His last mental barrier broke down, and he wrapped his arms around Aerin's knees, his muscular body racked with sobbing as his broken heart started to bleed.

* * *

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Ah-Malz, but I'm pretty sure the work of the Fighter's Guild in Skingrad is not pure goblin hunting."

It was the second day after Gorgoth and Ilend had left Aerin at the Imperial City. Riding hard, they had reached Skingrad early in the morning, and Ilend had joined the Fighter's Guild immediately. Gorgoth had declined an invitation to stay and rode on to Anvil. Ah-Malz, the Warder in charge of the Skingrad Fighter's Guild, had been happy to admit Ilend to their ranks as an Associate, having been firm friends of the Imperial for many years. Unfortunately, Ilend had learnt that Fons Llendo, the unfriendly Guild Journeyman from Kvatch, had transferred to Skingrad. Ah-Malz had told him to ignore Fons and make himself at home, and had been swift to suggest goblin hunting as a first assignment.

"Of course not," rasped Ah-Malz in response to Ilend's statement. "I just think you're wasted as an Associate; this gives me a reason to bump you up to Apprentice quickly." They were crouched behind a rock a few miles east of Skingrad, eyeing a mine supposedly infested with goblins. "Besides, Fons and Fadus can take care of the contracts given by the citizens of Skingrad easily enough; we don't get all that many. It's the contracts from the top we have to work on, and they're few and far between. So we have more time to spend hunting goblins." It was hard to tell with Argonians, but Ilend suspected that ah-Malz was smiling broadly.

"Well, I, for one, am not complaining," replied Ilend, grinning in amusement. He'd expected to have to do a lot of menial contracts before getting a respectable rank; goblin hunting seemed a lot more fun. He liked Ah-Malz as a leader already.

"Are we just going to sit here talking all day?" cut in the third member of their group, a Bosmer archer of Protector rank, Parwen. She was similar to Aerin, in that she was skilled with a bow and had brown hair tied in a ponytail, but the similarities ended there. Parwen preferred studded leather armour that actually made some difference in combat, had little skill with close-range weapons, and she seemed to be far more serious than Aerin. A disturbing fanaticism about keeping score had perturbed Ilend slightly on the way here; she had constantly been telling him about the scoring system of kills, assists, and rescues that she had recently devised. Ah-Malz had shaken his head in exasperation and told Ilend to ignore her and just focus on his kill count.

"You raise a good point, Parwen," grunted Ah-Malz, rising to his feet. "The usual tactics. Ilend and me lead, Parwen, watch our backs." He swung his large claymore off his back and moved forward in a combat stance, tail swishing, freed by a hole specially cut in the Argonian's iron plate armour. Parwen nocked an arrow to her bow as Ilend moved up to join Ah-Malz with sword drawn and shield ready.

There were two goblins sitting outside the mine, presumably on sentry duty, but facing the wrong way. They didn't stand a chance; Parwen's arrow slammed one forward into the ground, while the other, sitting up and scratching its bald, wrinkled head in confusion, was decapitated with ease by Ah-Malz. The Argonian wasted no time in kicking in the door to the long-abandoned mine. Immediately, the fetid stench that indicated lengthy goblin occupation reached their noses, but they plunged into the darkness without hesitation.

Ilend put his shield on his back and lit a torch. The flickering orange glow lit up the series of narrow tunnels that used to be used by miners many years ago. Now, with the veins of ore long since dried up, these tunnels were smeared with goblin shit and the dried blood of many an unfortunate adventurer or goblin hunter. Ilend held the torch high, but was careful to keep it away from the walls; he'd prefer it if the entire tunnel didn't go up in flames. The rotting support beams sometimes groaned under the pressure of holding up tons of rock, and occasionally a few loose rocks would tumble down the slopes of the tunnel.

"How safe is this mine, Ah-Malz?" queried Ilend, slightly perturbed by the falling rocks. "If it gets intense in here, I'd like to know if we're likely to be buried alive."

"The ex-foreman I spoke to said that the beams are reliable and solid; they'll hold the earth up for years yet," replied Ah-Malz, his green eyes never staying still for a second, always flickering from rock to rock, searching for goblins. "There's nothing wrong with the integrity, don't worry about it."

"It's held up fine the last five times, at least," added Parwen. "I doubt that it'll start to fall apart now after hosting some of the most violent goblin hunts ever seen in the West Weald. I don't think the greenskins would keep moving back in if they thought it would collapse on top of them."

"Glad to hear it," muttered Ilend in reply. The passage was widening out into a fairly spacious, mostly empty cavern, and he held the torch up, spreading its light over the surrounding area. A few crudely-made torches hung in rusted brackets on some support beams, adding their flickering light to the stronger glow of Ilend's torch. In the distance, harsh goblin chattering could be heard echoing off the walls of the deeper tunnels. The sole occupant of the cavern was a human skeleton. It had clearly lain with its spine against a support beam for some time, as cobwebs had grown between the joints.

"They know we're here," rasped Ah-Malz, head cocked to one side, listening to the goblins in the distance. "They've only got one passage that links to this cavern. It's a good bottleneck until their main wave is dead." The Argonian moved up and took up a position to the left of the mentioned passage exit. Ilend moved to the right, while Parwen hang back, an arrow nocked and ready to fly.

They didn't have to wait long. The sounds of the approaching goblins grew louder with every second, until the scampering of their feet could be heard just down the passageway. Parwen drew an arrow and released it in one smooth motion, and had another nocked by the time the goblin's dying screech had echoed throughout the caverns. "Two," she muttered to herself, releasing her second arrow. "Three," she intoned again as the second scream rang out. By then, the goblins were about to pour out of the mouth of the passage.

Ah-Malz roared as he put his entire body into a swing, the result being that his claymore sliced the first goblin to appear clean in two. The next goblin ran into Ilend's daedric longsword and was decapitated. Two goblins emerged at once; one fell to Parwen's arrow, while the other swung at Ilend. He blocked the goblin's mace with his sword and smashed the end of his torch into its head, stunning it and giving Ah-Malz time to dismember it from behind. Ilend darted past his superior and impaled an emerging goblin. He kicked it off his blade into one of its brethren that was already falling, clawing at Parwen's arrow in its throat. The bodies were piling up and the slaughter was beginning to become evident even to the dim-witted goblins, who slowed their advance, then turned and ran back to sanctuary, yelping and screaming in their own primitive language.

The Guildsmen pursued them, mercilessly cutting down any they caught up with, leaving the ground behind them slippery with blood and littered with corpses. Unlike the goblins, however, they knew not to go blindly charging into unknown territory, and when the passage widened, Ah-Malz slowed them down and went forward more cautiously. "I'm on six, I think," hissed Ah-Malz as he peered forward into the flickering shadows cast by Ilend's torch.

"Eight here," announced Parwen, who'd had the foresight to bring not one but two quivers and therefore had plenty of ammunition left.

"I think I'm on nine," grunted Ilend.

"Heh... beginner's luck, eh?" chuckled Ah-Malz as they turned a corner in the tunnel. There were five goblins waiting for them, clearly a delaying force of some kind. Ah-Malz immediately launched himself at them, removing the arm of one. The severed limb fell to the ground, still grasping the goblin's sword. The goblin looked down stupidly at his lost arm until Ah-Malz's claymore pierced his chest. Ilend's blade cut a goblin in half from chin to groin, the daedric steel cutting through the poor attempt at armour effortlessly. Parrying a lunge from another goblin with his torch, the Imperial rammed his sword into the goblin's exposed stomach. Parwen brought down the other two.

"Seven, ten, eleven," Parwen reminded them all as they continued.

"You don't have to keep count for all of us, you know," grumbled Ah-Malz. "We CAN count."

"Keep it down," hissed Ilend, making frantic hushing motions with his hands. "I can hear them up ahead."

There were indeed goblins talking up ahead, where the tunnel narrowed, then opened out into what seemed to be a large cavern. A perfect bottleneck. Ilend moved forward, holding the torch out in front of him, illuminating the trio of goblins armed with bows. The Guildsmen leapt back and pressed themselves against the sides of the tunnel as the arrows whizzed past them. Ilend threw his torch to Ah-Malz and took his shield off his back. Telling Parwen to shoot over him, he crouched slightly and advanced down the centre of the passage, attempting to fit as much of his body behind the shield as possible. It was his old guardsman's shield from Kvatch, and still had the wolfshead of Kvatch embossed on the battered, pitted steel.

Ilend heard Parwen's arrow passing over him, and heard a moan as the goblin fell. There was a jolt as two arrows embedded themselves deep into his shield, but it was exactly what he and Parwen had been hoping for; before the unskilled goblins could reload, the Bosmer had shot them down. "Nice work, Ilend, that's three assists for you," she called to him as he straightened. The Imperial barely had time to put his shield back on his back before Ah-Malz threw him the torch and led the charge through the bottleneck.

Following his superior through the gap, Ilend barely ducked in time to avoid a mace swinging at his head. Its wielder, overbalanced by the swing, staggered into the Imperial, who pushed him off and gutted him. Ah-Malz had already cut down three goblins, but was swiftly getting overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Ilend moved in to help, severing the spine of one then kicking another's kneecap, dislocating it. A green arm wrapped itself around his neck, then loosened and slid off as Parwen's arrow took the goblin in the back. Once again, the goblins were taking flight, but this time there was nothing to shield them from being scythed down from behind by Parwen's arrows.

Ah-Malz growled deep in his throat, and Ilend hurried over to find the Argonian examining a deep rent in the pauldron of his iron cuirass. His left arm hang uselessly, while his right was fumbling for a healing potion. "Bloody goblins... always have to swarm you," he snarled, wrenching a potion free from his belt and downing it in two gulps. The Argonian hissed at the painful feeling of his shoulder putting itself back together, then worked his repaired left arm.

"If you need healing potions, Falanu at All Things Alchemical gives us a discount for being such regular customers," Ah-Malz told Ilend, hefting his bloody claymore. The only evidence of his wound would the sizeable dent and corresponding hole in his pauldron. "Bloody good quality, as well. Heals you in seconds."

"I'll keep that in mind," replied Ilend and they set off after the goblins, stepping over those that had fallen to Parwen's arrows. His first reaction to any wound would normally be to heal it himself, but he also recognised that he couldn't heal anything much worse than a broken bone. Back in Kvatch, the Imperial had always made a point of always carrying at least two healing potions on him at all times, but he'd used them both in the battle and hadn't found replacements.

"I don't think there's many left in this rabble," observed Parwen as they caught up with her. "That said, we haven't come across the shaman or the warlord yet. Best to be on our guard." Ahead, the cavern narrowed once again into a tunnel, which forked. Ah-Malz led them down the left fork, claiming that the right fork had long since been blocked off by a cave-in. Approaching yet another cavern, Ah-Malz cautiously peered around both corners, then hastily pulled his head back.

"Warlord and shaman are both there, whipping the rest of em back into shape," he rasped. "There's four other big fuckers who look like they can handle themselves. The rest are rabble." The Argonian grinned, baring his rows of razor-sharp teeth. The goblin blood dripping from his claymore reflected the flickering flame of the torch. Parwen wrenched another arrow out of her quiver and nocked it. "Ilend, there's going to be light aplenty through there," muttered Ah-Malz. "Get your shield out. It might be useful." Ilend nodded and threw his torch down, taking his shield off his back and making sure the bindings were tight.

Parwen was the first to step through, loosing an arrow then sidestepping quickly to avoid a fireball. Ilend dashed through, shield ready, just in time to block a mace swing from a goblin that was gibbering in rage. Ah-Malz appeared and sliced the goblin in two, before spinning to parry an attack by the warlord, who was bigger, heavier, and meaner-looking than every other goblin present, wielding a war axe with considerable skill. The shaman, a short goblin wearing a robe and wielding knotted staff, sent a fireball at Ilend. It hit an over-eager goblin in the back, blasting its body past Ilend, who ducked and barged shield-first into another goblin. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Parwen line up a shot and sent a hopeful arrow speeding towards the shaman, but the goblin saw it and cast a shield spell, which deflected the arrow harmlessly.

Diverting his attention back to the goblin in front of him, Ilend ducked under its shortsword and slashed its leg open from hip to knee. The goblin fell shrieking to the floor, and Ilend put it out of its misery by slitting its throat. He looked up just in time to see the large goblin, wielding a small hammer, crash into him, taking them both to the ground. Ilend growled and threw the goblin off him, climbing on top of it and gouging at its eyes. Ignoring the ear-piercing shriek, Ilend continued to ruthlessly dig in his thumbs until his gauntlets were splattered with blood and the goblin lay still. Retrieving his sword from where it had fallen, Ilend started to surge to his feet only to have another goblin stumble into him, this one already dead, Parwen's arrow jutting out of its chest.

Kicking the corpse off him, Ilend turned to help Ah-Malz, who, having killed the warlord, was struggling to contain three of its bodyguards at once. Ilend stabbed one in the back and bashed another around the back of the head with his shield. Ah-Malz took the opportunity to sever both its arms then decapitate it. Leaving the Argonian to deal with the final goblin, Ilend turned to the shaman in time to block a fireball that was streaking towards his face. Ilend hissed in pain as his arm was scalded by the heat, but his shield remained intact. The shaman gabbled something and thrust his staff at Ilend, who threw himself to the ground to avoid the ball lightning that shot out of the end of the staff. It hit the wall of the cave with enough energy to crack the rock.

Fortunately, the shaman had been so focused on Ilend that it hadn't noticed its shield spell dissipating. Parwen noticed the purple glow fading and immediately loosed an arrow, striking the shaman in the chest and sending it crashing to the ground, staff rolling out of its hand and rolling over the ground until it came to rest against a corpse. Ilend leaped forward and plunged his sword deep into the shaman's heart. Parwen snorted.

"I don't appreciate killsnatchers," she growled at him.

"He was still breathing," grunted Ilend in response. Ah-Malz, having dispatched the remaining handful of goblins, merely laughed.

"Always best to make sure a shaman's dead," he rasped. "Those buggers have been known to continue surviving long after any decent goblin would have politely died." The Argonian gestured to the cavern, sweeping his arm wide. "Loot what you can carry out of here. The takings from this motley band won't be much, but it'll pay for ammo and repairs." Ah-Malz was quick in stooping and retrieving the shaman's staff, strapping it to his back with a look of greed shining in his eyes. Parwen muttered something about upper ranks and started to retrieve her arrows.

Loot was in short supply, so the Guildsmen had to be content with a handful of gold each and a few enchanted weapons that the goblins had been using without much skill. Emerging from the mines, they had to shield their eyes from the sun, which was blinding after spending so much time underground. Their horses were tied to trees a short distance away from the mine to prevent any overlooked goblin sentries from finding them. Loot was roughly shoved into saddlebags, and within minutes they were on the road back to Skingrad.

"Well, congratulations, Ilend," rasped Ah-Malz, riding up beside the Imperial. "You're now an Apprentice. Too bad I can't promote people any higher than that purely for goblin hunting, but at least no-one has to slog for months at Associate in my Fighter's Guild."

Ilend smirked. "I'm pretty sure that's against central Guild policy," he replied.

"It is," remarked Parwen. "Never stopped him, though." The Bosmer jabbed a thumb at Ah-Malz. "Still, this is a bloody backwater in terms of actual contracts, so he gets away with it." The Argonian appeared to smirk.

They reached Skingrad just as the sun was starting to dip beneath the horizon to the west. After a trip to the various shops in the market district, they split up and headed their own ways, Parwen claiming that she was going to chalk up their scores on the goblin hunt leaderboard in the Guildhall. Ilend walked into All Things Alchemical to take Ah-Malz's advice and get some healing potions. As the Argonian had told him, Falanu Hlaalu indeed gave a discount for Guild members. As Ilend blinked in surprise at her striking copper-coloured hair, she fetched an entire box of healing potions from under the counter. Ilend took four and slid over eighty septims. As he turned to leave, Falanu called after him.

"You used to be a guardsman, correct?" she asked him. When he nodded, a ghost of an odd smile flickered over her face. "Good. Could you possibly tell me what the fine for necrophilia is in Cyrodiil?"

Ilend raised an eyebrow, but left his visible surprise at that. He wasn't one to pry into the private lives of people. After thinking for a minute, he asked: "Is it the first offense?"

A slow, skewed smile spread over Falanu's face. "Let's assume 'no'," she replied.

Ilend rubbed his chin, attempting to remember the penalty for defiling of the dead for reasons of personal pleasure. "I think it's at least five hundred gold," he offered.

Falanu laughed. "That's nothing compared to Morrowind, thanks." He nodded in acceptance and hurriedly left. He made a mental note to keep future dealings with Falanu brief, and that when he died, he'd have to make sure his next of kin knew to bury him somewhere far away from Skingrad. Securing the healing potions to his sword belt, he turned and headed in the direction of the West Weald Inn, hoping that Erina would have forgiven him for given her that mess to clear up last time he'd visited.

* * *

Gorgoth, sitting on his bed in the Brina Cross Inn west of Kvatch, looked out of the window at the setting sun. After leaving Ilend in Skingrad, he'd travelled hard until he reached Kvatch, where he stopped briefly in the city to take a look at how work was progressing. The last remnants of the daedra and their mortal allies had been dug out a few days ago, and the slow process of rebuilding was starting. Help had come from all the cities in Cyrodiil, and Savlian Matius seemed to be settling into the position of leader. Gorgoth hadn't stayed long.

He'd realised that he wouldn't reach Anvil before nightfall and had stopped at the Brina Cross in to get some proper sleep in a proper bed. His armour already decorated the floor along with his vest, leaving the Orc naked except for his trousers, which now looked a bit worse for wear after long days of constant usage, but Gorgoth wasn't about to waste time to visit a tailor.

The warrior-shaman's thick right index finger was tracing the brutal, dark scar on his stomach. Merely letting his mind wander brought back the sights, sounds, and smells of that battle; he would forever remember the face of the warrior who'd almost claimed his life that day; the Redguard was one of the few people who could rightfully call themselves Gorgoth's equal in martial combat, and for that the Orc respected his foe's prowess. There were few others who could say that they had proven to be able to at least match him, blow for blow. Burzukh gro-Ghash probably bragged incessantly about how he had once left Gorgoth broken and bleeding, while neglecting to tell his audience that he had lost his eye in that battle, and that he'd had two good Orcs on his side, whereas Gorgoth had been alone. Gorgoth had healed his wounds, while Burzukh would forever be crippled.

Shaking his head, Gorgoth looked away from his scar, instead looking out of the window again. The sun was mostly below the horizon, casting long shadows over the Gold Coast. Gorgoth's eyes were drawn to movement down by the gate, and he leaned forward for a better look. What he saw intrigued him, and he settled back, with his back against the wall, to wait.

It wasn't long before his spell of life detection showed him a figure climbing the stairs. The Orc's eyes had been following the shape since it had entered the inn. Despite Gorgoth's skill with detect life, it was still nearly impossible to determine between the glows of Imperials, Bretons, Redguards and Nords, but this time he didn't need to guess; he knew exactly who was coming. What he didn't know was why.

The unlocked door creaked open, and closed again, seemingly on its own, but the strong chameleon spell hadn't fooled Gorgoth. Before the intruder could cancel the spell himself, the warrior-shaman flung out an arm, dispelling the illusion magic before Silencing the now-visible shadowy figure. Gorgoth took a moment to study the man standing in front of him before speaking.

"I know that you're not here to kill me, or I wouldn't have seen you down in the courtyard," he rumbled. "However, that makes me wonder. Why are you here if not to kill me, Lachance?"

If the black-robed Imperial standing before Gorgoth was unnerved by his Silencing or the Orc's greeting, he didn't show it. Little of his face was visible under the black cowl, the shadows seeming to cling to the robed figure. "I am here to question, not to kill," he spoke in his soft, macabre voice.

"You're not in a good position to question me, Speaker," growled Gorgoth. "You stand there, alone, Silenced, with me inches away from you, knowing many ways to kill you within seconds with my bare hands." Gorgoth paused to regard the Brotherhood Speaker for a few moments. "I take it you want to know why I have appeared in Cyrodiil?"

Lachance nodded. "After your... actions in Orsinium, some of us were wary of your presence here," he explained. "Obviously, if you were here to eradicate us, you'd be getting on with it already, so I'm interested to know... why are you here?" Gorgoth didn't answer, didn't move a muscle. Lachance sighed. "Murderer, if you wish to-" Gorgoth cut him off.

"That title, that rank, no longer applies to me," he muttered, leaning forward slightly.

"You defeated the Wrath of Sithis when it came for you, did you not? You would be a valuable asset-"

"Do not bandy words with me, Lachance," snarled Gorgoth. "I did not break the Tenets, I shattered them. If you wish to recruit me again, or to bring me back into your family, then that will be your last action on this plane of existence." The Orc stood abruptly, head brushing the ceiling, towering over the Imperial. If Lachance was intimidated, he showed no signs of it, merely stepping smoothly back to give Gorgoth room.

"If you must know, I didn't come to Cyrodiil of my own free will. But now I have found something to occupy me, and you will be pleased to know that it does not involve destroying the Brotherhood." Gorgoth looked down at Lucien and slowly leaned forward, clenching his fists, a look of malevolence appearing in his eyes. "Let us make an agreement, Lachance. The Brotherhood will not attempt to kill me, and, in return, I will not destroy the Brotherhood." The Orc straightened and walked to the window, looking out at the glow on the horizon. The sun had set.

"I will pass on your message to the rest of the Black Hand," said Lachance. He waited for a reply. Receiving none, he interpreted the Orc's posture as a clear dismissal and left the room. Gorgoth turned and watched his glow move down through the inn and out to the courtyard. He'd lifted the Silence spell as soon as Lachance had left the room, so it was only a blur that mounted the dark horse waiting in the stables.

Gorgoth sighed and rested both hands on the window frame. He had memories of the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary in Orsinium, the only one for hundreds of miles. He had stayed there, been called family, for a short time. He ruthlessly crushed the memories before they could form a coherent image in his mind. Apart from the Brotherhood themselves, there were only two people who knew of his dealings with them, and neither would reveal that short chapter of his past to anyone.

The Orc moved and sat back down on his bed. He intended to leave well before dawn tomorrow, and so had already settled everything with the innkeeper. Feeling that a good night's sleep was in order to prepare him for whatever Crowhaven would throw at him, he'd planned on getting an early night, but the appearance of the Dark Brotherhood Speaker had driven all thoughts of immediate sleep from his head. If Lucien knew his location, then he was vulnerable. Gorgoth didn't trust the Brotherhood an inch; Lachance had said he would consult with the rest of the Black Hand, but he was easily capable of sending a small army of assassins his way. The Orc stood and started securing the room with an impenetrable web of magic traps. He intended to be prepared for whatever came his way, no matter what it was.

* * *

**A/N: If you can guess who gave Gorgoth his dark, stomach-damaging star, you're a genius (though, if you do guess, tell me in private so that I can keep others guessing ;) ). In other areas, I'd just like to inform you that Blood and Steel will not include the Dark Brotherhood storyline in any way, shape, or form... though I am planning to write a fic about the DB storyline in this same universe after BaS is finished.**

**Review, people. It makes me happy.  
**


	15. Secrets

**A/N: OK, I think I owe you all a damn good explanation over the unforgivable delay for this chapter. It can be attributed to a number of factors: the release of Call of Duty: Black Ops, massive amounts of college work, and lack of motivation, but the main factor is sheer laziness and writer's block. For two weeks, this was stuck at 2,500 words, then I wrote 4,000 words in a single night. Anyhow, enough excuses; this is my longest chapter yet, and so therefore should be enough of an apology for the wait. Thanks to those of you who reviewed:**

**Commentaholic: In Gorgoth's case, it's not 'who' he murdered, not exactly; it's 'how many'. And the answer is: lots.**

**Nomz: Don't get too exited by the promise of a DB story by me; I might not even do one, as Blood and Steel has to be finished first; might take a while. And, yes, while writing it, I did feel a bit for both Branwen and Saliith (but not much, I don't DO emotional).**

**Underpaid Critic: I'm not considering the Thieves Guild, as I've only ever done it once and, quite simply, it doesn't appeal to me to write about it; I just find that it doesn't excite me that much. Rest assured that my DB fic, if done, would be suficiently different from the 'run-of-the-mill' ones you see in this fandom.**

**Random Reader: Going by the game, it's impossible to make assumptions about the Owyn/Branwen realtionship as we don't have enough material to work on. This is my take on it, and if you have a different view, well, that's your right.**

**To that completely anonymous person: Of course you're ready for the next chapter. A good reader is always ready for the next chapter. Why not put something useful in your review instead of telling me something I already know?**

**Avron: Hmm... I think I get there you're coming from, though I'm not too sure, and I'm not sure if I know how to improve it, but I've always favoured multiple main characters; it just makes it more interesting, in my opinion. Thanks for the review, in any case; they're always helpful (apart from the one mentioned above).**

**Laluzi: *shudders* Orc/Bosmer is more than just creepy, it's dangerous. If an Orc as big as Gorgoth had sex with an average Wood Elf, I'm pretty sure there'd be quite a few complications that would end up in internal injuries for the Bosmer. Not wanting to violate my T rating in the Author's Note, I'll move on: I thought people might expect Branwen to win, as she's the one with the more pre-developed backstory, but I like doing the unexpected. Anyhow, thanks for your reviews.**

**NoSoundComes: A review for a review... good attitude. Thanks for reviewing and I hope you can catch up soon. :)  
**

**Well, that's my longest Author's Note EVER, but the sheer number of reviews required it: Yes, I may be slow, but reviews overwhelm me with joy, so keep them coming. Please. Now READ ON!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: Secrets**

Having spent most of yesterday night after the goblin hunt drinking in the West Weald Inn with some fellow Guildsmen, Ilend was pleasantly surprised to wake up in the Guildhall with only a minor headache. That and the fact that he remembered most of last night was a clear indicator that he hadn't drunk as much as he'd thought. Or maybe Erina had watered his drinks. He groaned and sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. The beds in the Guildhall were narrow with thin blankets and lumpy mattresses, but at least they were free.

Wrapping the blanket around his naked body, Ilend stood and walked slowly to the window that looked down onto the cobbled street, scratching his thick chest hair. He yawned widely; it appeared to be quite early in the morning, according to the position of the sun. Turning away, he flopped back down onto the bed, putting his hands behind his head and urging his lethargic brain to think up an excuse to stay in bed. Finding none, he grunted in frustration, sat up, and reached for his clothes, which had been tucked under his bed along with his chainmail, shield, and sword belt.

Fadus Calidius chose that moment to walk in, fully armoured. Ilend nodded in greeting and continued to dress; long years of sharing a barracks with twenty other guardsmen had stripped him of all modesty long ago. "I just checked the leaderboard for goblin hunts," remarked the stocky Imperial. "That's a bloody good kill count for a first hunt. Very impressive."

"It wasn't my first hunt," replied Ilend, searching for his boots. "I've done a few before when I got leave from the Kvatch Guard. To be honest, I haven't even checked the leaderboard yet." Fadus's jaw dropped, and he walked out, muttering something about fresh meat not knowing the importance of scoring. Ilend smirked at the obsession of goblin-hunting that seemed to run deep in the Skingrad Fighter's Guild. It didn't take long for him to finish equipping himself. Making sure that all his potions were securely attached to his belt, Ilend headed downstairs.

The leaderboard for goblin hunting was chalked up on a large blackboard in the dining area. Ilend grabbed an apple and wandered over to take a look: there were two tables, one for all-time standings, and one for the present month. Apparently, in yesterday's hunt, he'd bagged seventeen goblins, with four assists. While not caring too much about his positioning in the rankings, he did note with some pride that Fons Llendo had yet to go on a goblin hunt. The Dunmer was probably concerned that his armour would get dirtied.

As though summoned by thought, the Dark Elf's snobbish voice invaded Ilend's hearing. Fons sounded like he was vehemently arguing with someone in the hall. Ilend frowned as another voice reached his ears. This one sounded familiar. He turned and walked over to the hall just as Fons and the stranger started shouting.

Kicking open the door, Ilend stopped and failed to conceal an amused grin: Fons was writhing on the floor, clutching his most vulnerable area, obviously in immense agony, as a certain Bosmer stood over him, her voice still raised in anger. An Argonian was standing awkwardly just inside the double doors that led out to Skingrad. Ilend could tell by his equipment that he was experienced; twin shortswords hung from a sword belt, while the hilts of several throwing knives were visible over his shoulders. His armour consisted of overlapping steel scales covering every area of the body apart from the lower legs, head, and hands, allowing flexibility while not sacrificing the natural agility of the Argonian. Ilend gave him a short nod in greeting before turning back to Fons and his assailant.

"Aerin, he pisses me off as well, but at least I don't go around kicking his balls in." At the sound of his voice, Aerin paused, poised to sink her foot into the unfortunate Dunmer's ribs, before spinning to face Ilend.

"Well, what the fuck am I meant ta do when he sneers down his nose at me and tells me, in a polite sense, to fuck off out of here?" she asked him, eyes flashing in anger. The Argonian by the door let out an audible, exasperated sigh that was ignored.

Ilend rubbed his chin. "I'd have gone for the nose. Break that and you ruin his 'perfect' face." The Imperial grimaced. "I would do it right now, but I'd probably be chucked out, and it's only my second day."

Fons attempted to squeak something, but Aerin turned and kicked him in the ribs. "Well, at least now he knows not to fuck with me. Doesn't the Guild train it's members how ta welcome potential customers or whatever you call em?" Aerin spat at Fons then backed away. "Well, at least that's settled," she sighed, the anger draining from her eyes. "Hello, by the way. Is there anywhere here where we could talk?"

Ilend nodded, shooting a last glare at Fons, who was dragging himself to his feet. "Follow me," he told her, leading the way out of the hall to the dining area. Without invitation, the Argonian fell in behind them. Ilend made no comment, assuming that he was with Aerin. The room was unoccupied, and Ilend took a seat at the long table, gesturing for the others to do the same. Sunlight filtered onto the bare stone floor through numerous windows, illuminating the various bowls of food dotting the table and nearby shelves.

Aerin took a moment to shift her sword hilts out of her stomach, then launched into speech. "Ok, firstly, I reckon I should introduce Saliith, Hero of the Imperial City Arena and an all-round nice bloke, at least in my estimation." Saliith inclined his head and Ilend nodded in return. "I'll let him tell the full story if he wants to, but, basically, he needs ta stay away from the Arena for a while, so I thought there'd be no harm in letting him tag along with us." Saliith gave an almost imperceptible snort.

It took Ilend a second to understand. "You mean... taking him along to Cloud Ruler Temple when we're summoned?" he asked. He didn't suspect Saliith of being a Mythic Dawn Agent, but he shared Gorgoth's views that it was best not to be too trusting. "Are you sure you trust him that much?"

"Well, obviously, we'll have to and see what Gorgoth thinks," replied Aerin. "But we could really use a guy like Saliith, Ilend. He's trustworthy and good enough to reach Hero rank."

At this point, Saliith broke his silence. "Gorgoth?" he asked. "You mean Gorgoth gro-Kharz?" There was recognition in his voice. Both Ilend and Aerin simultaneously nodded. The lizard nodded in satisfaction. "I owe part of my success to him," he rasped. "Never expected to find that much help from an Orc, but life's full of surprises." At that last part, he seemed to grimace – it was hard to tell what an Argonian was feeling through facial expressions – and fell silent again.

"So, what now?" asked Aerin, her mood brightening as she pushed back her chair, stood, and started pacing around the room. Saliith leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, apparently deep in thought. "I heard that you've already been on a goblin hunt; is there anything else exciting to do in this dump?" The Bosmer stopped to look at a fruit bowl before dismissing the contents as over-ripe.

"Hey, I was born here," growled Ilend, rising to his feet and slamming his chair back into place with more force than was strictly necessary.

Aerin turned to face him, eyebrow arched. "I thought you were born in Kvatch?" she queried.

"Gah, do you have a selectively good memory? I was born here, joined the Kvatch Guard when I was nineteen. Kept up regular visits back here, though, even after my parents died."

"Why didn't you join the Skingrad Guard?" Aerin was peering out through the windows at the cobbled street.

"Because being a guard here is a loathsome, boring existence. Nothing ever happens and the pay is the shittiest in Cyrodiil." Ilend snorted in disgust at the conditions the guard had to endure. Still, it could be worse. It could have been the Bravil Guard. Ilend inwardly shuddered at the very thought of serving in that mud-infested, crime-ridden hellhole.

"So... you're saying it's a dump?" A smirk was playing at the corner of Aerin's mouth as she looked up at the Imperial, who seemed to be on the verge of a minor apoplectic fit.

"Right, as you were saying, I think there might be something to do to occupy us," stated Ilend briskly, avoiding the question and turning his back on Aerin as he went through to the hall. Fons had recovered and had either gone out or retreated to some inner depth of the Guildhall. A quick check over his shoulder confirmed that the Argonian and the Bosmer were both following him, Saliith still deep in thought and Aerin wearing an annoying, superior smirk. Ilend ignored her and barged shoulder-first into Ah-Malz's office.

The Warder liked to keep his office in a permanent state of chaos for some reason, though there were few enough documents to get lost or misplaced. Written contracts littered the Argonian's desk, along with several pens, an overturned inkpot, and a small dagger. Ah-Malz himself had his scaled, bare, webbed feet up on the table and was leaning back in his chair, which had two legs off the ground. The Warder was casually throwing darts at a dartboard mounted on the wall to the right of him while reading a report, meaning that every single dart missed the target by several feet. The wall around the dartboard was pitted and scarred by the numerous misses. On the other walls hung trophies taken from various goblin hunts.

Ah-Malz looked up as they entered and swung his chair back onto four legs, thus forcing his legs up to an impossible angle and compacting his stomach quite painfully, at the same time as dropping a dart onto the bare wood floor. Rasping a stream of curses, the Argonian pushed himself away from his desk, which was nailed to the floor, and stood, wrenching the dart out of the floorboards as he did so. "How can I help you, Ilend?" he asked, eyeing the Imperial's companions curiously.

"A contract would be nice," grunted Ilend. "I'll be in town until I get a message of some kind, so I need something to occupy me and the two people behind me, who just happen to have attached themselves to me as my companions." Aerin started forward, evidently intending to introduce herself properly, but Ilend waved her back.

Ah-Malz started rummaging through the pile of papers on his desk. "Fortunately for you, I have just the thing," he rasped, fishing out a crumpled contract. "This just came in yesterday. A farmer, Thorley Aethelred, who lives up at Shardrock farm, wants us to go up there and dispatch a few bears. He can't pay us much in the way of gold, so it'll be a more long-term benefit, but I'll chip in enough to make it worth your while. You up for it?"

Ilend smiled. "Better than nothing," he confirmed, taking out his map of the surrounding area. Ah-Malz marked Shardrock farm on it and recommended that he set off immediately.

"If you do it quickly, you can probably get back here before dusk," advised the Argonian as he showed them out. "When you get there, Thorley can explain in more detail. He seemed like a good enough bloke when he came in here yesterday. Best of luck." The door to his office slammed shut behind him, and almost immediately there was the sound of a dart hitting the wall.

"Well, killing bears is a long way away from the Arena, but at least I'll be focusing," observed Saliith. He bared an inch of steel on both his shortswords and ran a hand over the hilts of his throwing knives.

Ilend raised an eyebrow, but Aerin quickly diverted him. "We've got horses in the stables," she told him. "That lizard advised us ta leave now, so... should we?"

"Ah-Malz gives solid advice," replied Ilend. "The sooner we leave, the better. I'm ready when you are."

Within minutes, they were in the Grateful Pass stables, retrieving their horses from Ugak gra-Mogakh. Javelin and Firebrand were both eager to go, but Saliith clearly wasn't at home on horseback and his mount reflected that; the shabby bay horse was clearly past his best, though he still apparently had some vigour left in him, as sheer determination enabled him to keep up with the faster, stronger horses over rough terrain as they headed towards Shardrock farm.

* * *

The sun, directly overhead, meant that there were few shadows, yet the crumbling, ruined old fortress of Crowhaven still seemed oppressive. Creeping ivy and old age was tearing down its walls, but age had also brought with it an evil aura and a sense of barely-restrained malice. There was little evidence of the town that would once have surrounded the castle, save for a few rotting beams dotted around the slopes of the hill. Few people came here anymore, but it was a landmark that was hard to forget, so directions had been easy to get; Gorgoth had barely stayed five minutes in Anvil after reaching it earlier that morning before heading off to find proof of the Grey Prince's nobility.

Vorguz tossed his head and snorted impatiently. Gorgoth stroked the stallion's mane to calm him down. He was a fine horse, but young and fairly inexperienced. Patience and resolve would come to him with good training and experience. Vorguz was no Orsinium warhorse, but, for now, he was more than good enough for Gorgoth. Seeing no further point in sitting and observing the ruin, the Orc dug his heels in slightly and Vorguz trotted up to the archway leading to the inner fortress.

Gorgoth dismounted in one smooth movement, leading Vorguz over to a nearby shattered pillar and tying his reins to a rusted iron rung. Patting the horse once again, Gorgoth turned, loosened his mace, and walked into the ruin. The sun bathed the courtyard in sunlight, yet the light itself seemed dimmed somehow. There truly was a shadow over the place. Gorgoth himself was unaffected; he had seen and felt far worse.

Crossing the courtyard to the heavy pair of iron doors that led to the deeper sections of the fort, Gorgoth noticed a skeleton half-hidden in the tall grass. Probably some adventurer who had got out of his depth. Putting his hand on the door, Gorgoth frowned and turned. His suspicions had proved correct; the skeleton was now standing and facing him, a steel claymore grasped in its bony hands.

As the skeleton advanced, Gorgoth took no action except to mutter the incantation for a spell under his breath. Most of his magics only used incantations to increase the power or magnitude, but the brand of necromancy that Gorgoth had learnt required verbal stimuli in several cases. The warrior-shaman raised his right hand and black magicka spewed forth, enveloping the skeleton, undoing the magics that bound its life force to its ancient, decrepit body. The black flows faded and the skeleton collapsed to the ground, the last vestige of life finally departing from the remains. Gorgoth turned and wrenched open the door, the heavy iron-reinforced wood scraping over the grass as though it had never been opened in years.

The musty smell of an old ruin mingled with something more sinister as Gorgoth walked in, his heavy boots sending up clouds of dust. There were times when the Orc almost thought he could sense evil due to his magical prowess; now was one of those times. If the fortress of Crowhaven looked evil from the inside, it most definitely felt like it on the inside. Gorgoth looked around, yellow eyes adjusting to the gloom, and snorted, the sound seeming like an explosion in the silence. Cobwebs grew in shadowy corners, stones were loosening in crumbling walls, and a thick layer of dust was everywhere. Crowhaven was the very definition of decrepit.

Gorgoth reached into his armour and, after some rummaging, brought out the old iron key that Agronak had given him. Aged and slightly rusty, it seemed to fit in with its place of origin. The warrior-shaman made his way through the fort, peering cautiously around every corner, seeing shadows flitting in and out of his peripheral vision. He cast his combat cocktail of shield and resistance spells; it was always best to be prepared. The dim light failed to penetrate most of the gloom, meaning anything could leap out of the shadows with no prior warning.

After negotiating several tunnels, each seemingly more decayed than the last, Gorgoth finally came to a securely locked door. The lock on it was rusted, but evidently very powerful; a brief use of Alteration magic had no effect. Instead of bringing his full magical powers to bear, Gorgoth simply inserted Agronak's key into the door. There was a screech of rust and a loud _clank_ as the mighty lock disengaged. Gorgoth dragged the door open, ignoring the screaming hinges and the billowing clouds of dust.

Abruptly, the feeling of evil that Gorgoth had been aware of intensified. As he moved into the dark hallway, his sharp ears picked up whimpering and mutterings. Not being able to judge where these sounds were coming from, he continued down the long corridor, drawing his mace. The mutterings got louder, sounding like the ramblings of a crazed madman, and when Gorgoth was halfway down the hall, a figure appeared from around the corner.

It was hard to determine what race the vampire had been; he was shrivelled and hunched, with skin paler than milk and lank grey hair reaching his shoulders. Ribs and bones jutted out at every angle, stretching the pale skin over his wasted frame. The red eyes, set deep in the gaunt, sunken face had a crazed look to them, and his insane ramblings, delivered in a voice that was reminiscent of fingernails scratching on a blackboard, confirmed to Gorgoth that this vampire had not fed for decades and thus was completely, utterly insane. He raised his mace, keeping it at the ready.

Upon seeing Gorgoth, the vampire's eyes widened, and his pale tongue ran itself over his fangs, which were so developed that they almost as big as Gorgoth's canines. The vampire hissed something; Gorgoth didn't catch the exact words, but he could tell that the vampire was both happy for his release and consumed by bloodlust; he could hear Gorgoth's heartbeat, sense the flow of the blood around his body. Screaming in both rage and ecstasy, the vampire leapt for Gorgoth's throat.

Gorgoth's speed had always been surprising from one so big, but he simply could not swing his mace fast enough to stop the vampire, who crashed into the Orc at full speed. The sheer strength lent to the vampire by his condition resulted in Gorgoth flying and crashing back down the corridor, only a death-grip on his mace preventing it from being torn from his hand. He had barely stopped moving when the vampire was on him again, sinking a kick into his ribs. Gorgoth was smashed into a wall, his armour absorbing much of the damage, but the impact was still great enough to drive the air from his lungs and bruise his spine.

Using his years of experience and training, Gorgoth rose up in a rising charge the second he hit the floor, smashing his shoulder into the vampire. It was now the turn of the undead to go sprawling down the corridor. He rose again nearly instantly, but was slowed to a pained hobble; in kicking Gorgoth's heavily armoured side with his bare foot, he had probably broken every bone beneath his ankle. The warrior-shaman, unconscious combat snarl plastered over his face, moved forward, meeting a lunge with a devastating mace smash into the vampire's ribs.

Undead bones reacted exactly the same way as living bones when confronted with the blunt head of a mace; Gorgoth heard them shatter, the fragments tumbling through the vampire's ribcage, puncturing his lungs. What used to be a perfectly healthy Imperial screeched in pain as he was thrown against the wall by the power of Gorgoth's swing. Ignoring the pain, but unable to ignore the debilitation that stemmed from having a third of his ribs broken, he scrambled to his feet, only to be kicked in the mouth. Before the now-toothless vampire could recover, Gorgoth had put all his strength into a savage kick at the vampire's temple. The undead slid over the floor, turning to dust before Gorgoth's eyes. Within seconds, the only evidence of the vampire ever having been there was a pile of grey ashes and a pair of filthy sack cloth trousers.

Gorgoth growled and winced as he moved back up the corridor, attempting to feel the extent of the damage to his ribs through his armour. Despite the vampire's foot shattering on his steel plate, the sheer force of the kick had left a sizeable dent; he could repair it himself later, but for the time being, the integrity of his plate armour would be reduced. It was not only his armour that was damaged; he couldn't tell whether some of his ribs were broken, cracked, or merely bruised, but he knew that they hurt. Directing healing magic at the afflicted area solved the problem.

The corridor led to what once would have been a fine bedchamber, but the years had taken their toll; the four-poster bed had partly collapsed and was covered in cobwebs; the various cabinets and drawers were damaged and dusty, and the carpets covering the stone floor were worn and faded. Decades of hosting a ravenous vampire, driven mad with bloodlust, meant that there was little that was undamaged in some way. Gorgoth started searching for something, anything, that might be regarded as proof of Agronak's noble blood.

After destroying most of the room in the search for proof, the Orc finally came across an ancient, leather-bound book. Written on the first page in fine paper were the words _Journal of the Lord Lovidicus_. Yellow eyes lighting up at the prospect of finally getting what he had come for, Gorgoth started turning the pages, sinking down onto the four-poster bed, ignoring both the dangerous creaking and the numerous spiders scuttling away from this massive intruder.

With growing interest, Gorgoth read the account of the latter years of Lord Lovidicus, a Cyrodiilic nobleman who had ruled Crowhaven and the surrounding area, and who had fathered Agronak with his Orcish lover, Luktuv. The warrior-shaman showed no signs of surprise when he discovered that Lord Lovidicus was, in fact, a vampire; he'd suspected as much when he'd first met the vampire whose ashes were now piled in the corridor. He didn't know what Agronak would think of it, but this journal was irrefutable proof of his noble birth, even if the last quarter of the book was full of insane ramblings about blood. Gorgoth stood and slid the book into the pack he'd brought with him.

Walking back through Crowhaven to the doors leading out to the exterior battlements, Gorgoth noted a definite change in the atmosphere. It was almost as though a collective breath, held for decades, had been released when Lovidicus had died. While remaining morbid and forbidding, the atmosphere no longer had the threatening feeling of malice that had once permeated the old fort.

Stepping outside, Gorgoth let the door swing shut behind him as he shaded his eyes from the harsh light of the sun. He hadn't been in Crowhaven for long – the sun was still climbing towards its zenith – but it still took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. Vorguz was patiently waiting for him outside the gates, chewing on some nearby grass. After untying his reins, Gorgoth shoved the journal into a saddlebag and mounted the stallion. He turned Vorguz in the direction of Anvil and dug in his heels.

* * *

The island of Whiterock lay thirty miles off the coast of Anvil. Named for its white rocks, the island was tiny, measuring only a few square miles of mostly forested land. Despite being so close to Anvil, it was well away from any trade routes and thus was very isolated; the perfect place to live in solitude, the perfect retreat for those who did not want to be found. The only signs of habitation were the handful of shacks and small houses, each quite far from its nearest neighbour, which housed the island's population of seventeen. A wooden jetty hosted a fair-sized boat which was the only real contact with the outside world, two brothers making the weekly trip to Anvil and back for supplies.

Nothing ever really happened on Whiterock; the population, consisting mostly of hermits and fugitives, kept to themselves mostly. However, as fate would have it, Mehrunes Dagon, in all his wisdom, had decided that the island would make a good staging post for the attack on Anvil and had ordered the creation of a Gate on Whiterock, right in the centre of the island.

"Won't they see the sky in Anvil?" asked Marie Otius, a Breton mage who'd been living on Whiterock for the last twenty-eight years. In her youth, she had been good-looking, but as old age beckoned, deep lines were appearing in her face, and streaks of grey marred her long brown hair. However, she still retained her magical ability, the reason why she was one of the inhabitants of the island who was still alive; the front of her dress was stained with blood, and a rip over her stomach showed where the Dremora had slashed her.

"They might see a red glow, but nothing more than that," replied her husband, Merildan, an Altmer. "It's a matter of perspective; we see it as horizon to horizon, but it isn't actually covering the entire world; it just looks like it is." The High Elf had brought his wife to the island with him for a quiet life and had never regretted his decision. He himself was a lot more prepared for the daedric invasion; at the first sign of trouble, he had rushed to his secret storage area behind the bookshelf and donned his old suit of light plate armour, which covered him from neck to feet. His katana was stained with the blood of daedra, and most of his magicka was gone, but he was unharmed, for now.

The Oblivion Gate was standing tall in the middle of the island, surrounded with scorched earth and the bodies of daedra. Trees nearby had been burnt to the ground or had collapsed due to the unique nature of the portal. Over roaring of the flames and the shouts of the inhabitants, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks could barely be heard. Marie shivered and drew closer to her husband. "I'm worried, Meril. What are we going to do?"

Merildan coughed, covering his mouth with his fist. It was a recurring affliction that became more noticeable under stress. "I don't like it, Marie, but we'll have to close it." When his wife looked at him, fear etched into her lined face, he continued: "If they take Whiterock, they can attack Anvil. They have mages; they can walk on water." His cultured voice was grim. "Going in and closing it is my – our – only choice. Besides, it is my duty." The Altmer looked down at his katana and grimaced. It was finely made in the Akaviri style.

Marie noticed his glance. "You were released from your oath," she reminded him. "I'm not having you dying out of some misplaced sense of duty-" Merildan cut her off.

"Once a Blade, always a Blade." He sighed heavily and headed over to where most of the surviving islanders were gathered. His status as a retired Altmer battlemage had given him some limited authority over the other inhabitants of Whiterock, and, when the civilised anarchy needed a leader, he'd historically always assumed the role. Now leadership was an unwanted burden on his shoulders, but he bore it stoically, never flinching once from what his duty dictated. Just like the old days.

Antus Doran, the elder of the two Doran brothers, who operated the island's only ship, was speaking in his loud, gravelly voice, bloodied sword in hand, gesturing violently at the gate and then in the direction of Anvil. "No, I don't care for your excuses. There is simply no way we can hold those daedra back, mages or no mages. Now, we need to-" He stopped abruptly as Merildan shouldered his way into the crowd.

"Antus, you and Garrus will go to your ship and make it ready for the voyage to Anvil," announced Merildan, allowing the crowd to share a few smiles of relief before continuing. "The rest will stay here for now. Some will remain here, while most of us will have to enter Oblivion to close that Gate. The-" His voice was drowned out in an instant uproar, with everyone shouting at once, some looking positively terrified at going near the Gate, let alone entering it. Merildan sighed and started wiping the blood from his katana; he knew better than to attempt to control the crowd; he was no good at it.

Predictably, he received help in the form of a half-elf drawing himself up and bellowing "SHUT UP!" at the top of his lungs. His son's mighty voice could quell even the Doran brothers when they got drunk, so he was very useful to have around, even though if his magical talent was slightly lacking. However, Merildan was no average Altmer, and there mere thought of culling his only son still repelled him. He loved Hannibal and his sister Selene with all his heart and more; he couldn't have asked for better children given the circumstances. Whiterock Island was no place to bring up children possessing such talent, but they had expressed an odd desire to stay after hearing his tales of the mainland.

Shaking his head and bringing himself back to the present, Merildan realised that the islanders were all looking to him for either guidance or an explanation; he himself hadn't been listening to Hannibal's exhortations. "As I was saying," he started, his voice calm and level. "We must go in and close the Gate, leaving behind a small guard to prevent the ship from being overrun. If the Gate is not closed, then Dagon and his minions can use this island to attack Anvil." Merildan paused and leaned forward. "We do not want another Kvatch at Anvil. I need volunteers."

The first to step forward, surprisingly, was Gnaeus Magnus, one of the more reclusive hermits of the island. Having been there long before Merildan had arrived, the Imperial was wizened with age; his sun-dark skin was drawn tight over his lithe frame, and a close-cropped white beard seemed to give him an appearance of wisdom, which was reinforced by his piercing blue eyes, which would not have looked out of place on a hawk. Some put his age at around seventy, some said even more, but in his hands was a bloody broadsword made from the finest ebony, and the front of his tunic was stained with daedric blood.

"I guess I should tell you that neither you nor I are going through that gate," stated Gnaeus, pointing a shrivelled finger at Merildan. His voice was clear and, despite his age, he still had most of his teeth. "Me, because I'm too bloody old to be running around in the realm of some upstart Daedric Prince, and you because you're the best healer we have; you can't keep up a defence with a few people without having holes poked in them."

Merildan grunted, but, upon thinking about it, agreed with the old hermit. While his daughter Selene was an excellent battlemage, he really wanted her in the attack, and the few other mages on the island were simply not as good as either of them at Restoration. "You have a point, Magnus," he said to the Imperial, who grunted and nodded. "Now, I need volunteers to go through that Gate." He looked at the surrounding islanders. "It's our only hope, Anvil's only hope," he added for inspiration.

It came as no surprise to him that his two children stepped forward together in unison. Aged twenty-eight and twenty-six, Hannibal and Selene were by far the two youngest people on the island, and were arguably the most effective in combat; Hannibal was a master with his blade and used supplementary magic to great effect, while Selene could smash open any battle line with her magic then dance through the gaps, wielding her elegant weapon, a glaive, with almost poetic effectiveness. Both were unique among the races of Tamriel; as half-Altmer, they had a slightly golden tint to their complexions; Golden hair exactly the same shade as his own cascaded from their heads, their ears were slightly pointed, and their heads were longer than the more rounded shape of a breton skull. Other than that, they were mostly Breton. Hannibal was clad in his chainmail that had arrived from Anvil all those years ago, while Selene wore an odd assortment of armour; her head was bare; heavy steel gauntlets and pauldrons covered her arms, and her legs were shod in steel boots and greaves that reached to mid-thigh, but her only other armour was a short chainmail skirt and a short chainmail cuirass that barely covered half her chest and always seemed too flimsy to be of much protection. No matter how much Merildan disapproved of his daughter flaunting herself in this manner, she claimed that her armour suited her fighting style the best, and he was grudgingly inclined to agree.

Next to step forward was Marie, but Merildan stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "You're staying here," was all he said. The stubborn look in his eyes told her that he wouldn't be budged on this matter, and she reluctantly stepped back.

Gradually, most of the islanders realised that there was no way out of their predicament and trickled forward to join Hannibal and Selene. Merildan led the motley band to the gate and placed the handful of defenders in a loose perimeter. The Doran brothers were sent to make their ship ready, while Marie made sure that the attackers were well-stocked with potions; several knew Restoration quite well, but anyone was vulnerable to a spell of Silence.

Miraculously, throughout the long minutes of preparation, no attack came from the gate. Merildan grew uneasy; the Dremora had to be planning a big attack; the islanders might be walking into an entire legion of them. Still, he had no choice but to watch as his grim-faced son raised his sword to him in a final salute before leading the company through the Gate. Merildan sighed and took his place among the defenders. It would be a long day.

* * *

Aerin grunted as she wrenched her arrow out of the skull of a West Weald bear. It had been firmly lodged in the thick skull of her target, and she almost overbalanced as it finally dislodged. Rising to her feet, the Bosmer took one look at the tip and growled in disgust; the arrowhead was bent. Tossing aside the now-useless arrow, she drew her dagger and once again bent down beside the bear, starting to hack off its fangs.

Thorley Aethelred was a simple man with a simple task; West Weald bears, more violent and dangerous than the normal variety, were killing off his sheep, his livelihood. He had tasked the Fighters Guild to kill enough of them to drive them from the area, and to bring him back enough of their fangs as evidence of their killing. Ilend, Aerin, and Saliith had all agreed that defeating bears in combat was something they could each do easily, and so had decided to split up to make the hunting quicker. They were to meet up again at Shardrock farm at some point soon after midday. Given that their only method of timekeeping was the sun, Aerin estimated that it was unlikely that they would all arrive back at the same time.

The hunter pulled the bear's second fang free from its mouth and added the new pair to the three pairs already shoved through her belt. She smirked as she thought of the others; they had little to no experience of hunting, and she was willing to bet Trueshot that they were having a lot more difficulty in actually finding the bears than she was. Tracking the bears, for her, was easy; they didn't seem to care much about the trail of bent grasses and damaged bushes their heavy, muscular bodies left behind them as they made their way through the wilderness in search of their next meal.

Straightening, Aerin squinted up at the sun through the canopy of trees, then down at her own shadow. She wasn't the best at judging time, but it was probably better to arrive back at Shardrock earlier than late. The Bosmer started to make her way back to the farm, trusting in her sense of direction and the tracks she'd left on her hunt. She certainly wasn't expecting a bear to find _her_.

The Bosmer was so surprised by the massive bear's sudden appearance right in front of her that she didn't have time to get Trueshot off her back before her nemesis had closed the distance. Aerin had relied on Trueshot for her previous four kills, and knew that her shortswords wouldn't do much good against a bear as big as this prime example; she was fairly good with them, but it was a matter of strength and power required to penetrate the animal's tough hide, neither of which she could count among her assets. Aerin decided that discretion was the better part of valour and ran.

However, she didn't panic, and within seconds was back on the track leading back to Shardrock farm, doing her best to outpace the angry bear behind her. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed that the massive ball of fur and meat was gaining; she knew that bears could move quickly when needed, but that knowledge was really no comfort to her at that moment; she'd be trampled into the leaf-strewn forest floor before she made it back to the farm. Growling in frustration, she managed to snatch Trueshot off her back at a run, slowing her momentarily. She could almost smell what she imagined to be the stench of the bear's last meal.

Running past a tree, Aerin grabbed it and used her momentum to flip herself up onto a branch. The bear roared and reared up on its hind legs, razor-sharp claws ripping open the bark mere inches below Aerin's feet. In a state of near-panic, the Bosmer scrambled further up the tree before turning and nocking an arrow. She waited for her breathing to slow and for her hands to steady before releasing the arrow into the bear's eye. The entire tree trembled as the enormous creature slumped forward into it. Aerin collapsed against the tree as the adrenaline left her, leaning her head back and sucking in vast lungfuls of air. At the very least, she wanted to be composed before she got back to Shardrock; if the others knew how close the 'experienced hunter' had came to death, she'd probably never hear the end of it, especially as she had bragged about her hunting skill half the way there.

Ilend was already back at the farm by the time she returned, significantly calmed. He was sitting on a tree stump, sharpening his daedric longsword. Two pairs of fangs lay on a tree stump next to him. He looked up at her approach, nodded in greeting, then went back to applying his whetstone to the daedric steel. Aerin still wasn't sure how he could treat the weapon so manner-of-factly; he'd taken it from a dead Dremora in the Battle of Kvatch. If it had been her, she'd have been showing it off to everyone as proof of the part she had taken in the battle. But, then, she hadn't been a Kvatch guardsman at the time, and she certainly wasn't a soldier. Ilend, no doubt, had his reasons.

"Saliith not back yet?" she asked airily, flopping down cross-legged on the ground beside Ilend's tree stump and beginning to idly play with the grass.

"Yes, actually, he's invisible and is standing right behind you," muttered Ilend. Aerin didn't catch the undercurrent of sarcasm in his voice and actually twisted round to look behind her. Upon hearing the Imperial sniggering, she turned and glared at him before placing her ten fangs on the tree stump next to his four. "Not a bad haul, but, then, you are the only hunter here," was Ilend's reaction. He straightened and put his whetstone back in his saddlebag, which was lying on the grass next to him. Their horses were tied to a fence post just outside the sheep's pasture. The Imperial thrust his sword through a loop in his belt – he'd yet to have a scabbard made to hold it – and stood up, surveying the edge of the forest.

"So, who is this lizard?" asked Ilend, looking down at Aerin with a curious look on his face. He'd obviously been interested in Saliith ever since they first met, but this was the first opportunity he'd had with Aerin alone to ask her about him.

The Bosmer sighed and got to her feet. Even straining for every inch of height – not that it was important in this case – the top of her ponytail barely reached Ilend's considerable biceps. "You should hear most of his story from him," she told him, folding her arms and leaning back on one leg. "What I will tell you is that he's Hero rank in the Arena, but needs to spend some time away from it for a while. Personal issues."

Ilend grunted in frustration. "That's basically a rewording of what you've already told me, treehugger," he muttered sourly.

Aerin raised an annoyed eyebrow. "We don't hug trees," she told him coolly. Any Wood Elf disliked being called a 'treehugger'; living in trees didn't necessarily mean that they embraced them.

"Well, you call Gorgoth 'big guy' and me 'guardsman', to name but a few," retorted Ilend. "I figure that we might as well make up a few for you." Aerin snorted, but otherwise stayed silent. Ilend had a point. "Anyhow, don't change the subject. Surely you can tell me his background."

"To be honest with you, Ilend, I really don't know all that much about his past," admitted Aerin, spreading her arms wide. "All I know is that he was born in Black Marsh and later emigrated, alone, to Cyrodiil, where he later joined the Arena and rapidly rose through the ranks. Happy now?" Aerin had an innate sense of loyalty; Saliith's traumatic experience in the Arena yesterday wasn't hers to share; it was Saliith's tale to tell when he was ready.

"Not really," grunted Ilend. "If we're going to be fighting alongside him... well, let's just say I'd prefer to know more about our potential allies." He raised his hands in defence as Aerin raised her eyebrow with a questioning air. "It can't hurt to be sure," he said. The Bosmer pointedly sniffed as though his questioning of her friend's loyalty had been a personal slight. Ilend sighed and took a swig from his canteen.

After a few minutes, Saliith arrived, his green scales almost blending in with the forest, though the sun reflecting off his scale armour would ruin any attempts at camouflage. He silently walked up and placed four fangs on top of the already considerable pile. "Pretty tough up front, but easy if you get behind em. My blades can penetrate deep enough to be fatal, thankfully." After delivering this report, the Argonian withdrew one of his throwing knives and started rubbing at a stubborn patch of bear blood with a ragged cloth.

"Well, that was quick," observed Ilend, squinting up at the sun as he collected up the fangs. "This'll be more than enough to appease Thorley, and we'll probably be back in time for dinner." A slight tremor erupting from his stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten since the morning, and he hurried into the farmhouse. Thorley, sitting in a weathered armchair and reading a battered book, looked up at his approach and smiled at the sight of the fangs clenched in Ilend's fists.

"Now, that IS a weight you've taken off my shoulders," he congratulated, rising slowly and gesturing for Ilend to lay them on the table. The fangs, many with bits of gum still attached, made a clattering sound as Ilend dropped them on the stout wooden table. "I doubt they'll be coming back to these killing fields any time soon." The farmer shot Ilend a toothy grin. "I can't pay you much, but I can spare a hundred gold. It's worth it for saving my livelihood." The Breton pushed across a small bag of gold to the Guildsman. "If you're passing by-" At this, they both smirked at the low chance of that ever happening "- feel free to come in and read at your heart's content. I never lend books, but read all you can." The farmer gestured at a bookcase that was by far the largest feature in the otherwise cramped farmhouse; it took up half a wall, the wooden shelves creaking under the weight of books that ranged from tattered to fine hide-bound volumes in pristine condition.

"I'll keep it in mind if I'm ever nearby and caught in a storm, Thorley," reassured Ilend before nodding in farewell and leaving the farmhouse. Ah-Malz had been right; Thorley had been a good man to deal with, effective in the description of what had to be done without being too obstructive, and truly grateful on completion. True, the contract had been a bit tedious and not exactly very rewarding, but it had been easy; if all future contracts were like this, Ilend could see why most of the Skingrad branch spent their time hunting goblins.

Outside, Saliith was cleaning the last of the bear blood from his throwing knives while Aerin was talking to Firebrand in a hushed tone. Ilend secured Thorley's payment by putting it in his saddlebag, which he then returned to its proper place, hanging from Javelin's saddle. "Saddle up," he ordered the other two. "I don't want to be hanging around here for too long. There's a special offer for dinner over at the West Weald Inn and I intend to be there for it." Ilend turned and hoisted himself up onto Javelin's saddle. The chestnut had long since grown used to the weight of the Imperial and his heavy armour, and merely snorted. Within minutes, the small party was carving a path through the West Weald, going as the crow flies back to Skingrad.

* * *

Gorgoth looked up from his book as a log settled into a different position in the fireplace. He idly looked out of the window, and saw that the sky was much unchanged; a sea of stars reigning in a cloudless night sky. The warrior-shaman sighed and settled further back onto the chair, ignoring its creaking, as he turned a page of _Mixed Unit Tactics_. He had read it already, of course; he'd filled his mind with every source of military knowledge available, then added to it from his own experiences on the field of battle. The reading was merely a way of passing the time. Norbert Lelles had been unable to be specific about the exact time the thieves broke into his store, but it was always some time after he'd gone to bed. It meant a lot of waiting for Gorgoth, but it was still better than his first assignment.

After returning to Anvil from Crowhaven, Gorgoth had immediately signed up to the Fighter's Guild, had been immediately accepted and had immediately found some grunt work to keep him occupied. He'd barely spent a few minutes in the Guildhall before being sent to deal with a rat problem plaguing Arvena Thelas. It had turned out that the rats were not the problem; it was the mountain lions killing them. After keeping his disbelief muted, Gorgoth had joined Pinarus Inventius, a local hunter, in tracking down and exterminating some of the local mountain lions, a pathetically easy task.

Upon returning to Arvena, Gorgoth had found, to his immense disbelief and slight horror, that the Dunmer was even more hysterical. After dispatching a second mountain lion, he'd eventually agreed, grudgingly, to spy on Arvena's neighbour, Quill-Weave. After sitting around for hours in the Dunmer's back garden, invisible, bored, and disillusioned, the Argonian had eventually appeared and chucked some meat on the ground. Gorgoth had confronted her, and after some 'persuasion', she had admitted everything. Gorgoth returned to Arvena and was so eager to escape the Dunmer's pathetic gratitude that he almost forgot to collect his payment.

After shouting at Azzan, the local Guardian, for several minutes over the absurdity of his assignment, Gorgoth was promised a better one by the Redguard, and was promptly sent out to combat thieves breaking into Lelle's Quality 'Mercandise', arguably the funniest street sign in Anvil. Upon hearing the problem, Gorgoth had settled down to wait. Lelles stocked a fine selection of books, and Gorgoth had already got through half of _Mixed Unit Tactics_, an account of Khajiiti tactics used in the Five Years War. Despite being completely illiterate until his twelfth year, he could read quickly; it was writing that defeated him. He much preferred speech, as his handwriting was an untidy scrawl that barely anyone could read, let alone understand.

A clicking in the lock mechanism, an indication of powerful Alteration magic, snapped Gorgoth's head up. He swiftly replaced the book and cast an invisibility spell. While they suffered from limitations, the Orc preferred invisibility over chameleon spells when remaining stationary; an eagle-eyed man or mer could spot the faintest ripples that resulted from even the most refined chameleon spells.

They entered the shop quickly and quietly, a Bosmer, a Dunmer, and a Nord, closing the door behind them before spreading out, having clearly pre-identified their targets. Gorgoth remained seated, invisible; the Dunmer came close enough for the Orc to feel his breath, but he remained undetected; none of them had thought to cast a detect life spell. Gorgoth's combat snarl was starting to form, but he kept his fists away from his mace; after the frustration of his last contract, he wanted something to invigorate his senses; using his mace on these half-trained thieves would be far too easy. He stood.

The heads of both mer whipped around and stared at the creak the chair made as Gorgoth's weight left it. The Nord drew an iron sword and twisted his head in every conceivable direction, looking for the hidden intruder. Wearing a ferocious mix of snarl and smile, Gorgoth appeared.

Roaring a war cry, seemingly ignoring the fact that he would be heard by half the docks, the Nord leapt at Gorgoth, who nimbly sidestepped, belying the weight of his armour. The Nord crashed headfirst into the bookshelf. Gorgoth spun and jabbed his straightened fingers into the thief's lower ribcage. The Nord howled in pain and rage as the armoured fingers of the Orc penetrated his skin and lacerated flesh as they passed through his body. Gorgoth withdrew his hand and turned to smash aside the Dunmer's claymore with his forearm. Stepping forward, he headbutted the ash-skinned mer, throwing him to the floor with a badly broken nose.

The Bosmer actually jumped in an effort to reach Gorgoth's neck with a dagger. Gorgoth merely grabbed him mid-jump, knelt, and brought the struggling Wood Elf down on his upraised knee. The warrior-shaman rolled the convulsing mer, definitely dead, off his knee and turned to face the Nord, who had managed to get himself out of the bookcase and was drawing back his sword for a thrust. Gorgoth punched him several times in the ribs, forcing him back, then spun and delivered a devastating roundhouse kick to the burly thief's throat. As he fell, choking, Gorgoth ducked, letting the Dunmer's claymore swish through empty air.

Turning, Gorgoth proceeded to disarm the Dark Elf and give him what was probably the worst beating he had ever sustained in his life. Eventually, after growing bored of kicking him around the shop and snapping his bones like twigs, the warrior-shaman stepped back and held out a hand, which started to glow purple. As the complex inverse water breathing spell started to take effect, the Dunmer feebly started to cough and choke; water poured out of his mouth, and he struggled to claw his way to Gorgoth, plucking at his boots with shattered hands, presumably in a futile plea for mercy. The Orc remained resolute and kept up the spell until the Dunmer lay dead in a mixed pool of his own blood and magically-created water. Not the first drowning in Anvil by any means, but almost definitely the first drowning to take place in a shop completely devoid of any water, save for some in a vase in an attempt to keep a wilted bunch of roses alive.

Gorgoth stomped out of the shop, ignoring the blood staining his gauntlets, and headed over to The Flowing Bowl, the harbourside pub where Lelles was waiting for his report. Opening the door to the pub, light and laughter washed over the Orc as he stepped in. It was mostly full, with the patrons, mostly sailors, winding down after a hard days work. Gorgoth quickly located Lelles, the Breton standing out from his surroundings, sitting alone at a table with a tankard of beer before him. Apparently, the pub further down the harbour, the Fo'c's'le, was even less civilised than the Flowing Bowl. Gorgoth walked over to the Breton's table and sat down.

"Your problem's been solved," grunted Gorgoth before Lelles could speak. "A Bosmer, a Dunmer, and a Nord. You'll find them in the shop. The mess was unavoidable." That last part wasn't completely true; he could have killed them quickly and cleanly, but it would have been too bloody boring.

Nevertheless, the Breton seemed pleased. He smiled and pushed a bag of gold over to Gorgoth. "That's a relief," he sighed. "Now I feel safer knowing that they won't plague me any more. Here's your payment." He drained his tankard, got to his feet, and left. Gorgoth stuffed the bag into his belt and removed his gauntlets to clean them. Magically created ice, melted with fire, was good enough for the job and within minutes the gauntlets were free of any crimson, their grey surface unblemished. The warrior-shaman had been intrigued by the colour of the steel; in Orsinium, the locally-mined iron was refined in such a way that most of the resulting high-quality steel was a grey so dark it was sometimes mistaken for black; Gorgoth's own suit had been a fine example.

He got to his feet and walked out of the inn. A drunken sailor staggered into his path, and Gorgoth merely kept moving, his shoulder hitting the Imperial's head and sending him sprawling. In his advanced state, he was likely to fall into a drunken stupor simply lying there. Gorgoth snorted and continued out into the street.

At times, Gorgoth found himself wondering why the Countess tolerated a pirate presence on the streets and harbour of Anvil; these rogues, when out at sea, would be attacking and pillaging the Empire's ships, so he couldn't fathom why they were free to dock in Anvil. Understanding your enemy was the key to defeating him, but Gorgoth had found that at times it was very hard to understand the Imperial political system. He ignored the various pirates brawling on the streets and entered the city proper, making his way back to the Fighter's Guild, where lights were still showing, casting their warm glow out onto the cobbled street.

Stepping inside, Gorgoth walked around the practise area, where a middle-aged, experienced Redguard Guildsman, Rhano, Swordsman rank, was practising, his blade striking home in the dummy's vulnerable areas quickly and decisively. Gorgoth felt that he vaguely recognised him, but he couldn't place the Redguard in any of his memories. Moving on, the Orc made his way up the stairs, ignoring the inevitable creaking, and marched into Azzan's office. Despite the hour, the Redguard was still diligently chewing through some paperwork, though he looked incredibly bored. He looked up as Gorgoth walked in, a smirk tugging at a corner of his mouth, clearly wondering if he was in for another tirade about the low quality of a contract.

"If you hear a rumour about a Dunmer thief being drowned on dry land in a shop, the person telling you isn't mad," announced Gorgoth bluntly. Azzan smiled.

"Creative. I like that in a man," he chuckled. "I see potential in you, Orc. You're promoted to Apprentice, and I'd like to give you some more advanced work, but all the contracts I have are already assigned." The Redguard spread his arms wide in a gesture of helplessness. "You could try Burz gro-Khash in Cheydinhal; he has plenty of contracts and barely anyone to carry them out."

Gorgoth only considered for a second before making his decision. He'd received no word from Jauffre yet, and he could drop off the diary of Lord Lovidicus on the way to Cheydinhal, so he didn't see why he shouldn't partake in a bit more grunt work for the Fighter's Guild. It was better than sitting around bored in Cloud Ruler Temple with nothing to do but spar and hold long conversations with Medraka, a Xivilai he'd summoned many times in the past. "I'll see what he has to offer," he grunted, before turning and walking out.

Downstairs, Rhano was still practising diligently, not seeming to tire from the effort. Again, Gorgoth felt a flicker of recognition, and, again, it died. The Redguard seemed to have the same thoughts; he gave Gorgoth a second glance as he passed, a momentary cloud of confusion descending over his eyes before he focused once again on the practise dummy in front of him as the doors swung shut behind the departing Orc.

Gorgoth would normally have rested and spent the night at the Fighter's Guild, but after his prolonged sleep yesterday night, he didn't feel the need for more sleep at the moment; he'd sleep when necessary, but before that he intended to waste no time. He made his way out of the city gates, which the guards opened for him without any questioning; apparently they recognised the massive Orc as the Hero of Kvatch. Gorgoth had taken a dislike to the title as soon as he'd heard it; there was not one Hero of Kvatch, but many; he had been the driving force of the latter stages of the battle, true, but it was the Kvatch Guard who had contained the Daedra and prevented the complete destruction of Kvatch. Savlian Matius and his men deserved a lot more credit than what they were getting.

The warrior-shaman waited patiently while Vorguz was brought from the stables by a sleepy-looking ostler. Gorgoth mounted and within minutes was at full gallop up the Gold Road to Kvatch and beyond.

* * *

The Deadlands were living up to their name. Eleven of the population of Whiterock Island had ventured inside the Gate, and nine of them were now lying in Dagon's realm, never to return to Tamriel. Instead of the honoured graves they deserved, they would most likely be ignominiously tossed into the lava. Selene felt no sadness for her deceased companions; she couldn't. Letting her guard slip, even for a second, just to mourn her companions, would be fatal. Mourning could come later, when the Gate had been closed; for now, she was just concentrating on staying alive.

After entering the Gate, an unpleasant experience, the islanders had immediately been attacked by what was clearly Dagon's next attack wave; a squad of Dremora, a handful of Xivilai, and assorted lesser daedra. Six of the men and mer from Whiterock had fallen in the brutal fighting, but the powerful magic of Selene and Hannibal's martial might had been enough to blunt the daedric assault and eradicate them. Since then, they had fought through the Deadlands every step of the way to the massive obsidian tower that dominated the landscape. Merildan, before they had entered, told them that they had to find the anchor that chained the realm to Tamriel and remove it; he was unspecific as to what the anchor exactly was, but he assured them that the fight would be hard.

And it had been hard. Only Hannibal and Selene remained, and both were exhausted. Selene was crouched close to the ground, bloodied glaive leaning on her shoulder, a dull look in her eyes as she looked around them for any sign of life, using a powerful detect life spell. Hannibal was standing, sighing as he downed the last potion they had left; it invigorated him and washed away his fatigue, but the situation was still dire; the anchor had to be close, they were near the top of the tower, but he had no magicka left, and Selene barely had enough to maintain her detect life spell. There were numerous dents and scratches on his chainmail, and Selene's plate armour on her limbs were in a similarly bad state, but neither of them had sustained any serious wounds.

"Any movement?" asked Hannibal, his normally deep, bold voice harsh and rasping; neither of them had drunk anything for hours, and the heat of the Deadlands combined with the intense combat accelerated dehydration.

Selene blinked. "The same; there's three figures in the room up ahead, but I can't see any others," she replied, her own normally melodious voice barely managing a whisper. "It's not going to get better any time soon." She signed and struggled to her feet. "We have to get this over with, Hannibal. Who knows what Dagon is unleashing while we wait?"

Her brother's face contorted into a grimace, but he nodded in agreement and raised his steel scimitar once again. There were already notches in the blade where it had been forced through tough skin and bone. Together, the two siblings picked their way through the dark grey rocks that pockmarked the floor of this section of the tower. They eventually came to two archways leading into a spacious room where the magical anchor speared straight up through the centre. Ridges seemingly made form flesh stretched up to the highest point of the tower, but before the two half-elves could launch their final assault, they were spotted by a Xivilai.

"Chaxil! Xilinkar! The survivors have finally arrived!" The daedra's voice was deep and loud, and the seven-foot tall ash-skinned figure wasted no time in springing off the ledge and hefting a massive battleaxe in one hand. Hannibal and Selene instinctively started back towards the other ledge, which was clear. Two Dremora, both clad in full daedric plate armour apart from the helmets, and wielding a claymore and a dai-katana, descended the ledge and took up positions flanking the Xivilai.

"About time we got some of the spoils of war," growled one of the Dremora, eyeing up Selene with an approving eye. "That girl looks tired now, but I bet she'll be good for at least two days." His grip on his katana tightened, and Selene's eyes grew slightly wider, out of both fear and anger. Hannibal's mouth twisted into a snarl, and he took a step forward.

"Leave some for me, Xilinkar," grated the other Dremora. "I've been fantasising about a good rape ever since you described to me that Wood Elf who seems to be following Gorgoth around. Medraka might want some of her as well."

The Xivilai raised a hand, cutting off Xilinkar's reply. "We'll divide her equally between us, but we've got to fucking capture her first," he told them. Turning back to the mortal intruders, he took a step forward, almost bringing Hannibal within the range of his axe. "You made a mistake in coming here, mortals," he muttered, lowering his voice menacingly.

Hannibal continued to glare at the Xivilai. "Selene, run before they cut off your path. Get to the bloody anchor and take it. Take it now!" The last words were uttered in a shout as Hannibal charged forward, knocking aside the Xivilai's blow and slashing towards its chest. The two Dremora cursed and leapt into the fray.

Selene knew that to do anything else than run was pointless; most of her magicka was gone, and the two of them could not defeat three battle-hardened, rested daedra. But she remained, lingering for precious seconds, watching her brother as he fought for both their lives. Then the claymore-wielding Dremora looked up, saw her, and snarled, leaping away from Hannibal and starting towards her. Selene gasped and sprinted up the ledge, running as fast as she could in her armour, glaive banging against her legs. The clanking of the Dremora's armour and the smell of his sulphuric breath reaching her nose served as a motivator, pushing her beyond her normal limits.

The moment she reached the platform, the moment she saw the anchor, a black sphere in the stream of pure magicka, she heard a roar of pain and agony that chilled her blood. The half-elf missed a step as the thought of Hannibal dying in this forsaken pit of doom caused anguish like she had never known before. Then her hand closed around the sphere, and she heard the Dremora behind her scream in frustration, felt the air stir behind her as his claymore dug itself into the ground mere inches behind her boot. Selene turned and threw herself backwards, away from the vengeful Dremora, her fist clenched around the anchor; she would never let go, not even in death. A wall of flame rose up and consumed both of them.

Smell was the first of the senses that returned to Selene; she guessed that she must have passed out upon her return to Whiterock. And Whiterock it was; beneath the stench of decaying flesh and burnt trees was the unmistakeable salty smell of the sea. Hearing returned next; the crackling of fires and the crashing of the waves on the white rocks. She opened her eyes and found her cheek pressed against the scorched earth outside the Oblivion gate. Attempting to push herself up, her exhausted, battered, bruised body rebelled against the most simple of instructions and merely gave a small wriggle before lying still. A pained groan burst from the battlemage's dry throat. There was not an inch of her body that didn't feel like it had been pummelled to near death. She recognised the fact that there might be danger near - survivors from a recent daedric wave of attacks – but her body was refusing to move, and she felt the warm embrace of the long sleep reaching out to her, attempting to embrace her in its comforting oblivion.

Selene was torn from the brink of death by a hand shaking her shoulder with significant force. "Come on, girl, wake up." She moaned. Another shake, this one powerful enough to turn her onto her back. The anchor, or whatever it was, was still tightly gripped in her right hand. A wizened, tanned hand slapped her in the face, and her eyes flickered open, eventually focusing on the lined, weathered face of Gnaeus Magnus. Blood was smeared over his white beard, and his tunic was sodden with blood, but his eyes were alert. And angry. "I said, COME ON, girl, unless you want to wait here until the Dorans flee to Anvil without us? I thought you young people were meant to be energetic." His exhortations eventually persuaded her to rise.

She looked around her. The devastation was even worse than when she had left. Daedric corpses littered the ground around the gate, and most of the trees on the island were now shattered, charred ruins. Most of the shacks had been reduced to nothing more than firewood. Whiterock Island had been completely destroyed.

"Mother? Father?" she mumbled. She'd meant to form coherent sentences, but her tongue no longer seemed to work. It was adrenaline – pure adrenaline, and maybe a few spells to augment her stamina – that had kept her going in Oblivion, and she was reeling from the withdrawal. Her brain was working well enough to recognise that neither her mother nor her father were visible, either among the dead or the living.

Gnaeus's eyes and voice softened. "Dead," he grunted. "I'm sorry, girl, but we have to move before those bloody smugglers leave us in the lurch-" He got no further, as Selene had fainted, collapsing into his arms.

* * *

**A/N: Remember, tell me EXACTLY what you think by writing a review. It can only help me, and it's only a few minutes of your time...**


	16. Threats

**A/N: Please allow me to apologise in advance: I do not like this chapter. The first half is chaotic, and, in my opinion, all over the place, while the second half feels a tad rushed. Hopefully, the next chapter should be cleaner, but, for now, this is the best I can come up with.**

**Laluzi: Gorgoth didn't cast a cure disease spell because there was no need; Lovidicus kicked his ribs in, but he didn't get his fangs anywhere near Gorgoth, so he couldn't have contracted Porphyric Hemophilia.**

**Random Reader: I haven't yet found a source better than uesp . net, so if you've found one with more info on NPCs, let me know. And it would be nice to know your opinion on something other than whether Owyn is OOC or not...**

**Underpaid Critic: I actually had no idea that a Whiterock Island even existed; I just thought up the name as I simply couldn't think of anything else. And I've often listened to a LOT of inspirational music when writing, and I find that it helps sometimes. Regrettably, I can't find a way of making the line breaks darker; the formatting from MS Word doesn't carry over, so I have to use the ones, which are lighter.  
**

**Zwig: They set a fast pace because Saliith wants to get away from the Arena and to actually do something to get his mind off things quickly, and dithering around instead of riding hard won't solve that problem. I can't really see Aerin managing to persuade him otherwise if he wanted to ride through the night...**

**Commentaholic: Brutal? Believe me, you have seen little of Gorgoth's real brutality yet... let's just say that I doubt anyone here has guessed at how evil he really can be. And as for the perverts/rapists, Xivilai are generally a bit more restrained than most Dremora, but everyone's unique; Medraka might be different. We'll find out later.  
**

**Hmm, that's a fairly long author's note... still, it's a good thing; it's long because I had so many reviewers to reply to. With 9 reviews, Chapter 15 is my most popular chapter yet, so thanks to anyone who reviewed, and, to those who haven't, a reminder: REVIEW. And now I'll stop blathering and let you get on with reading.**

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: Threats**

Ilend was late in rising; he'd gone to bed late enough last night. Thankfully, for the second morning running, he'd had no hangover; his suspicion that Erina was watering his drinks had been confirmed. At the moment, he was working out the stiffness in his back – he'd fallen asleep at an awkward angle – by throwing himself at a practise dummy down in the basement. Fons Llendo, bearing only scars of pride from his encounter with Aerin yesterday, was attacking the other one. Neither of them had anything to say to the other, so only sound in the basement was the impact of steel on wood, the clinking of armour, and the occasional grunt.

Saliith had gone to buy some healing potions – Ilend had recommended Falanu Hlaalu to him, but had warned him not to stay and chat for too long – while Aerin, much to Ilend's disbelief, had gone shopping for clothes. Deciding that he'd probably never understand women, he'd retreated to the basement. Upon discovering that his daedric blade was strong and sharp enough to cut through the hardened wood of the dummy, he'd borrowed a simple iron longsword from a nearby weapon rack.

As he practised, Ilend was thinking mainly about what Saliith had told him in the West Weald Inn at dinner last night. After some gentle questioning, the Argonian had revealed that after a rapid rise through the ranks at the Arena, he had been forced to fight the Redguard who had been his companion and friend for many years. Ilend had originally thought he could empathise with the Argonian, but then realised that seeing your friends cut down all around you was incomparable to killing them yourself, looking into their eyes as they breathed their last. The Imperial had offered his sympathies, but he knew that they couldn't offer the Argonian much relief from his grief. Ilend growled and focused on the practise dummy; he hated thinking morbid thoughts.

Fons' sharp voice drew Ilend's attention. "Who is that irritating Bosmeri rat you seem to like, Vonius?" he asked, leaning against the wall, fanning himself as sweat trickled down his ash-grey face. His netch leather armour was damp in patches. The Journeyman had been subdued ever since his brush with the Wood Elf yesterday. The look of distrust he was giving Ilend probably also had something to with the fact that Ilend had earlier that morning been promoted to Journeyman by Ah-Malz. However, the Argonian had warned him that, from now on, promotions would be a lot harder to come by, as he couldn't just throw them around wantonly after Journeyman was reached.

Ilend turned to face Fons, struggling to keep his anger from showing. He himself had barely started to sweat. "She's a hunter, and Warrior of the Arena," he grated. "And if you insult her again, you'll be wishing she was still kicking you in the balls." He threw his borrowed sword to one side. It hit the wall and fell to the stone floor with a loud clatter.

Fons flinched, but stood his ground. "And what were you doing taking her on official Guild business? Her and that pondscum?"

Ilend sighed in frustration. Fons had a reputation in Kvatch for getting the most controlled man to snap. "I didn't take either of them. They followed me." He knew it wasn't an explanation, but he wasn't about to waste time thinking up an answer to Fons's question. The Imperial walked briskly out of the basement, smirking at the Dunmer's flinch as he walked past. Physical harm wouldn't hurt Fons much; it would take damage to his considerable pride to dissuade him from doing anything.

Saliith had arrived back from All Things Alchemical with several healing potions and was sitting at the dinner table, involved in a deep discussion with Ah-Malz. The Warder seemed to be trying to recruit the gladiator, but was having no success. Apparently, Saliith didn't want to commit to anything until he'd cleared his thoughts. Ilend grabbed a bunch of grapes and walked out, stuffing several into his mouth at once, intending to practise his restoration spells. Gorgoth had told him that consistent practise would eventually reduce the amount of magicka needed for each spell as his technique became more refined. There was obviously a more complex explanation, but Gorgoth hadn't told him, claiming it would take too long, be too hard to understand, and he didn't need to know about it anyway.

Chewing the grapes, Ilend sat down on his bed and removed his gauntlet. He drew his dagger and sliced the back of his hand open. Ignoring the stinging pain and the blood dribbling onto his blanket, he sent a trickle of healing magic down towards his hand. The wound glowed a pale blue before healing, leaving a few drops of blood staining his hand. Ilend repeated the process until his magicka had run out. He'd paid close attention to what he perceived to be his magicka levels upon casting each spell, and towards the end of his practise, he felt that he'd detected a miniscule reduction in the cost of the weak spell. Maybe Gorgoth's advice would actually pay off; the Imperial had scarcely believed him when the warrior-shaman had told him that diligent practise could reduce the magical cost of spells.

Wiping his hand on the slightly bloodied blanket, Ilend rose, checked that his wallet was secure in his pocket under his armour, and went downstairs. He intended to visit the blacksmith; apparently, when not hung over, she was fairly good at what she did, and he was hoping she could recommend him to someone to make a good scabbard for his daedric longsword; he was growing tired of it hanging loose from a loop in his belt.

He was about to open the doors to the street when they swung open and Aerin strode in, seemingly unchanged from when she'd left. "Didn't find anything you liked?" asked Ilend, slightly curious, as he caught the door to prevent it from closing.

Aerin sighed in exasperation and folded her arms. "Yeah, a lot of stuff, actually," she told him. "Can't you see I'm _wearing_ it?"

Ilend studied her body. Her boiled leathers looked exactly the same to him. "No," he said truthfully. Aerin snorted and strode off into the dining room. Ilend shook his head in mild disbelief and left the Guildhall. The skies were overcast, threatening rain. A sharp wind immediately tore through Ilend's armour, and he repressed a shiver. Summer had been over for several weeks, but this was the first real indication of the coming autumn. The Imperial hunched his shoulders and headed in the direction of the Hammer and Tongs, from where the ringing of metal on metal could clearly be heard.

* * *

Gnaeus Magnus paced the deck of the Doran's ship irritably. He'd never cared to learn the name of the bloody contraption, and had no patience for the nautical terms the two smugglers had kept shouting at each other on the voyage to Anvil. The aged Imperial disliked his leaving Whiterock Island, but in reality he'd had little choice; if he'd remained, he'd have died of starvation. It had been thirty-five years at least since he'd left the mainland behind him, and he wasn't about to be happy about going back. The hull creaked and groaned as it impacted on the side of Anvil's harbour, the Dorans clearly overworked as they struggled to bring the ship to anchor safely. Gnaeus growled and grabbed a nearby length of rope to stop him falling; his balance wasn't what it used to be.

He was worried about Selene; the half-elf had never set foot on the continent before, and it would no doubt be a shock to her despite the many stories bandied about over ale by the now-deceased dwellers of Whiterock. It wouldn't help that she was almost immobile with grief. She hadn't moved from the bed ever since he'd placed her their last night, and he wasn't about to interrupt her and her sorrow until he had to. The Imperial had lost all knowledge of how to comfort people, not that he ever would.

Garrus Doran stepped over to him; apparently, the ship was now mostly secure in the dock and the harbourmaster, a portly Nord, was walking down the jetty with a curious expression on his rounded face. Garrus, a weathered old Imperial ex-smuggler with receding white hair and a face nearly as wrinkled as Gnaeus's, wore a concerned look. "Me and Antus won't be staying here," he muttered, eyes never resting on one spot. He was the less assertive of the two brothers, and seemed to be permanently nervous. "In fact, it'd probably be best if you and Selene left... pretty soon."

Gnaeus snorted, the sound reminiscent of an indignant camel. "And leave _me_ to tell the Count about what happened on Whiterock?" he asked, placing his hand menacingly on the hilt of his sword. "I've got no intention of going anywhere near that bloody castle."

Garrus started wringing his hands, shooting futile, pleading looks at his brother, who was conversing with the harbourmaster. "First of all, the Count has been missing for near enough a decade," he muttered, lowering his voice. "And do you really expect either of us to go see the Countess? She'd slap us in irons for sure. We're still recognised around these parts sometimes."

Gnaeus grabbed the taller man with a strength that belied his age and pulled his face down so that they spoke eye to eye. "Then tell someone who can tell the bloody Countess," he growled, ignoring Garrus's cringing. "I am NOT having a horde of Dremora walk across the bloody bay and slaughter everyone here in their sleep." He pushed the cowering Imperial away from him and stomped into the cabin.

Selene, lying flat on her bed, still fully clad in her bloodied armour, was awake, her red-rimmed eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. She didn't acknowledge Gnaeus's presence. The old hermit sighed and prepared for some negotiation that would either go smoothly or make him feel bad. "Come on, girl, we've got to move before the Dorans kick us off."

Her face turned fractionally, and her brilliant green eyes, reminiscent of emeralds, met his piercing blue ones. The lack of emotion currently displayed on her face was a mixture of the shock and her holding back her rampant emotions; he knew full well that she'd spent most of the voyage crying herself to sleep, only to wake screaming a few minutes later as she saw the Deadlands again in her nightmares. He genuinely felt pity for the poor girl, but now wasn't the time to be showing it.

"Leave me." Her voice was a whisper. "I'll chuck myself in the bay at a convenient time. I'll make my peace with the Divines." The half-elf's gaze returned to the ceiling.

Gnaeus growled and slapped her, hard. She straightened so quickly that he took a step back despite himself, but she went no further, any fight draining out of her as she slumped back to lean against the side of the ship. "I didn't drag your heavily armoured arse all the way to this fucking ship just for you to do yourself in," he snarled. "I put my back out saving your life, and you want to throw it away? Bloody youths, always making trouble for us old, senile, gits." He was exaggerating slightly; Selene's armour, custom made in Anvil, had been designed with mobility in mind and so was quite light while still offering more than adequate protection on the limbs. She herself was light enough for him to have carried both her and her armour down to the Doran's ship without too many stops to rest.

"I didn't ask you to save me, old man," she told him, slowly getting up from the bed. Her Altmer blood meant that she was taller than most Breton women; he was average height for an Imperial, and they were almost seeing eye to eye. "All I want to do is join my family in Aetherius. You want to take that from me?" She spoke slowly, as if holding back her raw emotions left no room for quick speaking.

"Now you're being stupid," growled Gnaeus, grabbing her by the arm and hustling her out of the cabin. He noted with some satisfaction that she grabbed her glaive on the way out; if she was really intending suicide, she probably wouldn't have taken the time to retrieve her weapon. He continued his tirade. "Listen to your bloody elders for once, girl; if you don't, who else will nag you until your ears fall off?" He pulled her over to the centre of the boat, near the main mast, well away from the edges. She was blinking, eyes still adjusting to the brightness outside, even though clouds covered the sky.

"I've got my whole life behind me, pretty much," continued Gnaeus. "But you, you have your entire life _ahead_ of you, girl. Now think about doing some good in that life, helping people, you know, that stupid kind of chivalry that priests like to preach about." She was listening, he could tell. "Now imagine you doing yourself in, and then those people go without help. You're denying them happiness out of your own bloody selfish desires. Now snap out of it."

Selene sighed, her shoulders slumping. "What will I do?" she moaned. "Where will I go?"

Gnaeus sighed again. The hardest part was over, but he still didn't relish the task yet to come. "I spoke to your father before he died," he said, somewhat awkwardly. Her lower lip trembled, but she managed to hold her dam steady. "We were out of potions and magicka, not that I know any of that sorcery anyway. But he gave me this." The Imperial took Merildan's Akaviri katana off his back and held it out with both hands. He'd cleaned it and put it in its scabbard, but Merildan's belt had been sliced through by the sword blow that had ended his life.

"He asked me to tell his next of kin to take it to Cloud Ruler Temple," continued Gnaeus. "His next of kin is you. So that's what you do, and that's where you go."

Selene took the katana, a couple of stray tears splashing onto the scabbard. She clenched her fists around the aged leather and looked up at the old hermit. "I'll fulfil his dying wish if it's the last thing I do," she said, her voice growing stronger. "But I'll need help, I'll need guidance... I'll need support."

She was looking at him with a fierce look in her eyes and a stubborn set to her jaw. He'd known her father long enough to know when he wouldn't be budged on a point, and it would seem that that trait had been passed down to his daughter. "Ah, crap," he moaned.

* * *

"So... an army of Dagon descends upon an island that consists of seventeen old men and mer, mostly fugitives and hermits, and gets defeated? Somehow, I think your lord might want to rethink his strategies." Gorgoth leaned back against the tree and regarded the three daedra sitting around the remains of the small campfire the Orc had lit a few hours earlier. After travelling through most of the night and passing Kvatch, the warrior-shaman had decided that he and Vorguz needed rest, so set up camp a few hours before dawn. Upon waking several hours later, some time after sunrise, Gorgoth had felt the desire to question the summoned daedra he'd built a good relationship with over the years, and had summoned all but one of them: Kathutet was still unavailable. He'd been slightly amused to hear of their undoing by a tiny island population.

"Not all of them were old," snarled Xilinkar, pounding his fist into his palm. "And even the old ones knew how to fight. They're fugitives, they know how to survive." It was as though the Markynaz was hunting for excuses, as well he should; he'd been in overall command for the attack.

Chaxil looked up and sighed. "Gorgoth, if you were there... well, let's just say that I respected their prowess; they fought with honour." The Kynmarcher's head dropped once again to his claymore, which he was slowly turning over and over in his hands.

Gorgoth grunted; if Chaxil said they were worthy of respect, then they must have fought heroically. "We accomplished the main objective," grated Medraka harshly. The Xivilai was staring off into the distance. Whatever he saw, it certainly wasn't pleasing, as he was wearing an unpleasant expression. "The island is cleared, and it can be used as a staging ground." It sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

The warrior-shaman tapped one of his canines. "Well, firstly, Anvil now knows about your plans, so it'll be harder to take them by surprise," he began. "But not only that, it'll be a lot harder to open a Gate on that island now that there's a closed one in the middle of it; from what I've heard, it was hard enough to open one there in the first place." He knew the daedra were being reluctant to admit to the truth; there was little hope of ever creating another Gate to Whiterock Island. "Looks like you'll need to just go back to directly assaulting cities again." The irony of conversing with the enemy and offering them advice on their battle plans was not lost on Gorgoth.

Xilinkar snarled. "If we'd accomplished what we set out to do at Kvatch, we'd be dividing up all Tamriel by now and taking our spoils of war," he growled. "At least the champion of the enemy is someone I respect," he muttered darkly, shooting a significant glance at Gorgoth, who raised an eyebrow fractionally.

"I doubt the people of Tamriel would want me as their champion, despite calling me the Hero of Kvatch," he retorted. "In fact, I'm pretty sure most of High Rock would still love to chuck me into Oblivion to die an agonising death even if I saved all of them." The Orc snorted. "That's Breton gratitude for you..."

"Well, they do have several valid reasons," pointed out Chaxil. He let his head fall back and rest against the tree he was sitting against. "I have to say, that's probably the most rewarding experience I've ever had in the mortal realm." His lips, a red so dark that they were almost black, curled upwards in a cruel smile at the memory. "Did I ever thank you for taking me – us – with you on those raids, Gorgoth?"

"You may have expressed your gratitude to me a couple of times in the past," replied Gorgoth. Taking note of the position of the sun, he stood slowly. It was proof of the respect the daedra held for him that they surged to their feet almost immediately. "I think me and Vorguz are rested enough to push on," he commented. "I guess you've got to get back to... doing whatever you were doing when I summoned you?"

Xilinkar snorted. "We're organising more combat trials for the rank-and-file," he growled. "Another piss-poor performance like on that island and we're fucked. We'll be seeing you, Gorgoth, hopefully on a battlefield, and hopefully not facing you." Gorgoth nodded and dispelled the magics that kept the daedra bound to Nirn. They faded from view, and Gorgoth busied himself with breaking camp. He calculated that he'd reach Skingrad soon after midday.

* * *

In his old life as a priest in Kvatch, Martin had typically maintained a good, healthy lifestyle; he didn't drink, he ate modestly, and he made sure he followed an exercise regime to keep in shape. Overall, he had been in pretty good shape for the average citizen. However, ever since he'd arrived in Cloud Ruler Temple, the punishing regime forced upon him by the Blades' drill instructor, a grizzled old Redguard named Lathar, was like nothing he'd ever experienced. After he'd got settled in at Cloud Ruler Temple, taking the quarters assigned to the Emperor – a fact that still made him feel slightly uncomfortable – the ex-priest had barely had any time to himself; his entire day was spent either reading a book list drawn up by Jauffre – "To be an Emperor, you need to learn a lot" – and training.

Lathar had set up a gruelling regime, encouraged by Jauffre – "The Emperor has to rely on himself as his last line of defence" – which included training in just about every weapon under the sun and intense physical training intended to get Martin fit enough to use those weapons in battles that could potentially last several days. Overall, Martin was constantly more tired than he'd ever been in his life; even the orgies of Sanguine had been less tiring, due to the use of magicka to reduce fatigue. Jauffre had assured him that his training would decrease in intensity, and that he'd get more free time, when he'd achieved a sufficient level of physical prowess, but that seemed far away yet. The fact that he was still getting used to the fact that he was the next Emperor only added to his worries, as did the fact that Baurus and Glenroy still hadn't progressed much in finding the cult that had killed Uriel and stolen the Amulet of Kings.

At the moment, Martin was in the canteen eating lunch –or, at least, what passed for lunch after the heir's taster had taken his fill. An open book was next to his plate, detailing the proper way to conduct politics when in Elsweyr. It was mostly boring, but Martin knew he'd need any help he'd get to survive in the treacherous Imperial politics following his coronation, so he attempted to absorb every word. A Blade stood a few metres behind him, leaning against a pillar. Martin had taken the time to learn the names of each and every single one of his guards – they cycled shifts – and his shadow at this time was a Redguard called Cyrus, the same one who had met him at the gate when he'd first come to Cloud Ruler Temple. While he valued their loyalty and appreciated that their job was to keep him safe, and they'd be doubly on their guard since they failed in protecting his father, Martin still wasn't entirely used to the fact that a pair of bodyguards stood guard over his bedroom every night. The fact that his sleep was often disturbed by nightmares of Kvatch didn't help.

Martin looked up as Jauffre sat down at his table. The Breton had since changed out of his monk's attire to don his old suit of Blades armour, and while it was odd to see a man so old in armour, he wore it like it was a second skin. Martin himself had kept the same old robe he used to wear as a priest, and the clothes he wore under it were just as cheap and tattered. He had resisted all efforts to get him some clothes more befitting his station; he wanted to at least keep some part of his old life until even that became impossible.

"You'll need that knowledge, Sire, if the Renrijra Krin carries on like they are," he commented, nodding towards Martin's book. The heir grunted sourly and turned another page, taking another bite out of his sandwich. He didn't exactly know what it was filled with, only that it was some kind of meat; right now, all he cared about was the upcoming weapon training under the sharp eye and sharper tongue of Lathar. It had always disturbed him how the Redguard could refer to him as 'Your Majesty' in one breath, then as a 'slack-jawed imbecile who is more likely to slice his own toes off than to even scratch a goblin' in another.

"I guess I should be thankful that Baurus and Glenroy are taking so long," sighed Martin, leaning back in his chair. "If I was crowned Emperor today, I have no doubt that the Empire would disintegrate."

"Well, it's doing its best to disintegrate already," muttered Jauffre darkly. "Ocato's doing his best to hold the provinces together, but there's only so much one overworked Altmer can do; the other members of the Elder Council are mostly too busy with covering their own worthless arses." The Breton snorted, shaking his head in disgust.

"Not everyone can be a selfless, incorruptible paragon of all that is good, Jauffre," Martin told him. "In fact, there are very few who are. All men and mer are imperfect." Years of worshipping Sanguine and then the Divines had told him that.

Jauffre sighed, at that moment looking every single one of his eighty-one years. He pressed a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes momentarily. Then they snapped open, he straightened, and the moment of weakness of the Grandmaster of the Blades had passed. "No matter what the rest of the Empire is doing, your Blades will remain true," he claimed. "We should focus on the present for now. The future will come in its own time." The Breton rose. "Lathar tells me you are progressing well, Sire," he told Martin. "We'll make another Uriel V out of you yet." With a grin pulling at one corner of his mouth, the Breton saluted and left Martin alone with his sandwich and Cyrus.

The Emperor-to-be sighed. The only thing he'd read about Uriel V, the great warrior-Emperor, so far was a rather interesting report about his disastrous attack on Akavir, which had claimed his life and the almost complete destruction of four legions. It had been one of the more interesting books Martin had read, and he'd gathered that Uriel V was the Septim most admired by many of the Blades, but he still had no wish to emulate his ancestor; while he wasn't averse to fighting, he had no wish to make the battlefield his home. Martin stuffed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and walked out of the canteen, heading over to the training area, shadowed as always by Cyrus. If he was late, Lathar would always think up something nasty to throw at him, heir or no heir.

* * *

As Gorgoth had predicted, he reached Skingrad just as the sun was reaching its zenith. He'd intended to ride straight through the city without stopping – Ilend and Aerin could handle themselves without him needing to check on them – but he was diverted towards the chapel by an extremely short Wood Elf who was gesticulating frantically and hissing for him to come closer. The warrior-shaman consented and drew Vorguz to a halt at the graveyard wall, almost hitting the diminutive Bosmer. "What do you want?" he asked simply, making no effort to keep his voice down. Already, several townspeople had turned to watch the huge, well-armoured Orc astride a fierce stallion, a fact that seemed to annoy the Bosmer immensely.

"We can't talk here. Too public," replied the Bosmer speaking in whispers so quiet that Gorgoth had to lean down to hear him. The Wood Elf's eyes were darting everywhere as he spoke, pausing only to deliver a short glare to every townsperson who was looking their way. "Meet me behind the chapel at midnight. Tell no-one." He was about to run off when Gorgoth grabbed his arm and roughly turned the Wood Elf to face him.

"Forget it, treehugger," he snarled. "I'm just passing through, and I don't care for you or your fucking paranoia. Go bother someone else." With that, he shoved the startled Bosmer away from him and turned Vorguz back to the main road.

Again, his progress was interrupted, this time by a gauntleted hand grabbing his stirrup. Looking down, Gorgoth saw Ilend frowning after the Wood Elf, who was walking quickly away, trembling with either fear or rage. "Glarthir's been known as the city's resident paranoid Bosmer since before I was born," he observed. The Imperial looked back up at Gorgoth. "At least his efforts were wasted on a no-nonsense Orc like yourself."

Gorgoth took the time to courteously dismount before responding. "How have you been, Ilend?" he asked, gathering Vorguz's reins and idly stroking the stallion's mane.

"Let's just say that I made Journeyman quicker than I anticipated," replied the Guildsman, his smile growing broader. "It's a good place here. I could get used to Skingrad after this... crisis with Oblivion is over." The Imperial's face momentarily twisted into a grimace as he was reminded of Kvatch.

"Journeyman already?" asked Gorgoth. "I guess your contacts help. Azzan in Anvil gave me two easy contracts and promoted me to Apprentice. I'm heading to Cheydinhal; there's more work there apparently."

Ilend snorted. "You'll find more work there than in this Guild backwater, for sure," he muttered. "The downside of having the lowest crime rate and the best law and order in Cyrodiil is the fact that the Fighter's Guild has sod all to do except hunt goblins." The Imperial shook his head. "Ah, well, good luck. See you at Cloud Ruler."

Gorgoth nodded in farewell and remounted. Within minutes he was leaving Skingrad, galloping down the Gold Road to the Imperial City.

It was a testament to the innate stamina of Vorguz that he rarely complained despite Gorgoth's harsh pace. Maybe he was spurred on by the thought of a good day's rest in the Chestnut Handy Stables, which they reached a few hours before dawn. Gorgoth stabled Vorguz, trusting Snak gra-Bura not to eat a paying customer's horse, and continued on into the city. He went to the darkened Arena, and, finding Agronak asleep in the Bloodworks, decided not to wake him; being woken up in the middle of the night and being told his father had been a vampire probably wouldn't be good for Gorgoth's health. Instead, the warrior-shaman selected a bedroll and crawled into it, for once not bothering to remove his armour. Sleeping in the heavy, stifling plate armour was enormously uncomfortable, but Gorgoth wasn't about to have it stolen.

Gorgoth woke a few hours later due to Agronak frantically shaking his shoulder. "Did you get it?" asked the half-Orc, tension evident in his face.

The warrior-shaman sat up and looked around. Despite it evidently being early in the morning, a handful of gladiators were up, and several were within earshot. "Let's take a walk," he suggested, rising to his feet and leading the way out of the Bloodworks. Agronak, suppressing his impatience, followed him.

Clouds still covered the sky as far as the eye could see, and the wind was colder and more biting than yesterday. Gorgoth observed two Imperials walk past, shoulders hunched inside fairly thick coats, and wondered what they were shivering about; in Orsinium, this weather wouldn't be out of place in a mild spring. Shaking his head, he led Agronak over to the training area that had once been used by Branwen and Saliith. He stopped and removed the journal of Lord Lovidicus from the single saddlebag he'd brought with him into the City. "I went to Crowhaven," he told Agronak, holding out the journal. "This is all I could find. It should be sufficient."

The Grand Champion eagerly snatched the leather-bound book from Gorgoth's hand. "I cannot thank you enough for doing this for me, friend," he said, clapping Gorgoth heartily on the shoulder. "There has to be some way I can repay you. I have gold-"

"I need no reward, Agronak," replied Gorgoth, his expression unchanging. "You might want to read it before you get ahead of yourself."

Agronak's pleased expression did not falter as he diverted his attention to the journal of his late father. However, as he got further through the pages, his expression turned to one of horror. His pale green hands started to tremble as they turned the pages, as if dreading what lay ahead. By the time he had reached the crazed ramblings of an ancient, blood-deprived vampire, Agronak was clenching his teeth, and his face was a picture of agony. He looked up at Gorgoth.

"I'm no 'Grey Prince'," he muttered hoarsely, his voice unstable. "I'm the son of a vampire, the spawn of evil!" The Grand Champion's breath was coming in harsh wheezes as he struggled to come to terms with his heritage. Gorgoth's face seemed to be set in stone. "I thought I was the son of a nobleman, not some blood-sucking monster!" Agronak's voice was rising in volume and intensity. Gorgoth gripped his shoulder firmly and pulled him closer.

"Agronak, you have not studied vampires in any way, that much is evident," he started. "I have; to know your enemy, you must know them, and I have fought many vampires over the years." Agronak didn't seem to be listening; Gorgoth shook him violently. "Listen to me, gro-Malog, unless you really want to believe that your soul is damned for eternity just because your father was a vampire," he snarled.

The half-Orc's head snapped up, and he fixed Gorgoth with a steely glare. Seeing that he had Agronak's attention, Gorgoth continued. "It is impossible to create a vampire by birth; they are created, not born. Undead cannot spawn undead, no matter who they breed with. Think about it." Gorgoth shook Agronak fiercely, hoping to bring the gladiator to his senses. "Yes, your father was a vampire, but he cannot pass on those vampiric traits through conception; he has to bite someone to infect them." The warrior-shaman leaned closer. "You are half-Imperial. IMPERIAL." He shoved Agronak away from him, forcing the half-Orc to step back.

"But... he..." Agronak was stuttering, still attempting to damn himself and his heritage for some reason unknown to Gorgoth. Confusion reigned on his face.

"You breathe. Your heart beats. You feel no desire to feed on the living. You can feel the sun warm your skin without being burnt to a crisp. You. Are. Not. A. Vampire." Gorgoth empathised each word, as though driving them into Agronak's brain with a warhammer. "Do I have to push even more arguments into that thick skull of yours? Wake up, you pessimistic idiot!"

It worked. Agronak seemed to snap back into reality. His shoulders slumped and he breathed a sigh of relief. "Then I'm not..." he shuddered, as though the idea was now too horrendous to comprehend. "I... Thank you, Gorgoth. Without your persuasion, I'd have chucked myself in Lake Rumare at the first opportunity." The half-Orc took a deep breath and visibly brightened. "And this means that there is proof of my noble blood after all," he proclaimed, picking up the journal, which had fallen from his hands in shock. "If you ever need anything, Gorgoth, _anything_..."

"I'll know who to contact," Gorgoth finished. He held out a hand, and Agronak shook it vigorously. "Spill some blood for me, Agronak."

"May you be forever blessed, my friend," stated Agronak in farewell. He turned and went back down into the Bloodworks, a huge smile plastered over his pale face. As Gorgoth stood watching, the same short Bosmer who'd kept annoying Agronak burst out of a nearby bush and started running after his hero, then stopped and looked down at the ground forlornly; he evidently wasn't allowed into the Bloodworks under pain of death by torture. Gorgoth shook his head and walked off in the direction of the Market District.

Approximately thirty-six hours later, Gorgoth arrived in Cheydinhal. He'd taken a significant shortcut by casting a spell of water walking on Vorguz and riding over the eastern end of Lake Rumare, but had then been slowed by some surprisingly effective bandits who had used hit-and-run tactics to great effect until he'd killed all eight of them. It had struck him as odd that the bandits had seemingly attacked no-one on the road – the journey had passed without Gorgoth meeting many other people, and certainly not any victims of bandit attacks – and seemed to be very focused on Gorgoth, who wasn't exactly a good mark for a bandit. He'd pondered the oddity all the way to Cheydinhal.

After stabling Vorguz in the Black Waterside Stables – he'd had to knock on the door loudly and repeatedly before the night ostler appeared, bleary-eyed – Gorgoth managed to get into the city without too many questions asked by the guards, who'd been naturally suspicious of a massive Orcish warrior-shaman wanting access to their city in the early hours of the morning. Once one of them recognised Gorgoth as the Hero of Kvatch, however, they'd almost fallen over themselves letting him in, despite the Orc's private disgust.

The Fighter's Guild was dark and silent as Gorgoth crept in, using a modified Silence spell to hide his footsteps and a Night-Eye spell to find a bed without tripping over anything. He wasn't about to wake a Guildsman at this hour enquiring about a contract. If he did, he'd likely find himself demoted and assigned to cleaning the Guildhall with a toothbrush. The warrior-shaman removed his armour and crept into bed. He sincerely hoped that the contracts here were a lot less boring than the grunt work he'd been assigned so far.

* * *

"Ah... that's bloody good." Ilend was moaning in pleasure as his muscles were having the best massage they'd ever had; years of guard work and sleeping in a tiny bunk in a barracks had made him susceptible to knotted muscles, and when he'd suffered from several after waking up from an afternoon nap following a successful goblin hunt, Aerin had consented to apply what she'd learnt from a masseuse who'd plied her trade next to the tavern where the Bosmer had worked as a dancer for six weeks.

"By the Divines, Aerin, where have you _been_ for the last five years?" asked Ilend, grunting in pleasure as Aerin's hands worked his well-muscled back, loosening the knots and relaxing his tensed muscles. He was lying, naked except for a towel, on a table in part of the Fighter's Guild basement, a part that was rarely used. His clothing and armour lay haphazardly against one of the walls, along with his sword belt, Trueshot, and Aerin's sword belt.

The Bosmer snorted in response to his question. "A mixture of growing up, hunting, and fighting in a glorified sandpit," she told him. "I certainly never expected I'd ever end up massaging a fairly good-looking Guildsman in the basement of the Guildhall in Skingrad when I joined the Arena."

"Well, these things happen," smirked Ilend, leaning his chin on his hands. His smirk grew broader as he mentally repeated what she'd just said. "Did you say good-looking?" He laughed as her hands almost imperceptibly trembled.

"I said _fairly_ good-looking, guardsman," she growled, pounding his lower back muscles with more force than was strictly necessary. "I've seen far better."

"Yeah, well, you used to hang around in the Arena," retorted Ilend. "I'm pretty sure you get your fair share of insanely well-developed men passing through there, to meet their end at the wrong end of a weapon." He snorted. "Saw that happen enough times in the Kvatch Arena. Could have used men like them in the Guard." Aerin muttered something under her breath about his obsession with the Imperial Legion.

Saliith walked in and stopped. "She never did that to me," he whined, folding his arms and fixing Aerin with what Ilend assumed to be a chiding expression. The lizard seemed to be becoming better at holding in his grief, though Ilend knew that the scars would take a very long time to heal, if they ever did. For now, the Argonian gladiator was returning to what Aerin called 'his normal self' for periods of time, before lapsing back into his silent, gloomy state.

Aerin stuck her tongue out at Saliith. "I never could work with your scales, Twitch-Tail," she told him, darting to the other side of the table as though to use Ilend to shield her from the Argonian's biting glare. "Ok, Ok, don't get tetchy on me." She held out her hands in a placating gesture until Ilend growled at her to resume attacking his muscles.

Saliith snorted. "My scales are no problem; Branwen gave me mas-" His words caught in his throat as the memories came back, and Ilend noted that his eyes clouded over. The Imperial felt a twinge of sympathy for the Argonian, who cleared his throat, growled something unintelligible, and walked out.

"He seems to be bearing well," commented Ilend. His voice was devoid of sarcasm; he knew that if he'd had to put his closest friend to death, he'd have slashed his own wrists by now. The only reply was a grunt as Aerin finished her massage and stepped back.

"Want me to do your legs?" she asked wryly, a sly grin appearing on her face. Ilend smirked and shook his head, starting to push himself up and reaching down to secure his towel, when Aerin snatched it away from his grasping fingers and swayed over to where his clothes were piled, her grin even broader.

"I hope this is pay-per-view," Ilend grunted as he swung himself off the table and walked over to his clothes. Aerin raised an eyebrow and nodded in appreciation. "I spent six years in a cramped barracks, Aerin," he told her. "Do you really think I have any modesty left?" Smirking and shaking his head, he pulled on his clothes and armour while the Bosmer leaned back against the wall, watching his every move.

"Remind me to repay you by loosening _your_ muscles some day," Ilend told her, pulling his sword belt towards him and fastening it around his waist. The scabbard he'd had made was a near-perfect fit for his daedric longsword; it had, at least, stopped bashing into his legs and was slightly quicker on the draw.

Aerin sighed and rolled her eyes in exasperation, attaching Trueshot to her back and joining him in ascending from the basement. Outside, thunder rumbled overhead and rain beat down on Skingrad as the cold wind gusted down the streets. It was for that reason, mainly, that all of the Guildsmen, plus Aerin and Saliith, were resolutely staying in the Guildhall; they'd only go out if they got paid, and as no contracts were forthcoming, they were content to eat, sleep, practise, and, in some rare cases, read.

As Ilend and Aerin reached the main hall, Ah-Malz stuck his head out of his office and yelled "Contract!" before withdrawing his head. There was an instant rumble of feet as most of the Guildsmen dashed towards Ah-Malz's office; the first there would get the contract, unless it required multiple members. Ilend's positioning meant he was stumbling into the office first, with Fadus breathing down his neck, groaning in dismay. Apparently, this practise was long-established; the infrequency of good contracts made it depressingly common.

"Take a seat, Journeyman," offered Ah-Malz, gesturing at the rickety chair standing before his desk. It creaked under the weight of Ilend and his chainmail as he flopped down, causing the Argonian to wince. He pulled out a document from the piles of papers strewn across his desk. "We finally have something that's not boring and not a goblin hunt. Could pay well, too."

Ilend raised a curious eyebrow. He was swiftly growing bored of hanging around in Skingrad, his only diversion being whacking a practise dummy and sparring with Saliith; the Argonian so far had won three of their five sparring matches, which had been watched with great interest by Aerin and most of the Guild. "A well-paid job normally implies danger," he said, a questioning tone creeping into his voice.

"Damn right, Ilend," sighed the Warder, running a finger down the contract before handing it over. A citizen of Skingrad, an Imperial by the name of Gerich Loran, hadn't returned from a trip in the West Weald to gather alchemy supplies. His worried wife had contracted the Fighter's Guild to either find him and bring him back alive, or bring back his wedding ring as proof of finding his corpse, with quite a generous reward. Apparently, he normally harvested alchemical ingredients from the area of the West Weald northwest of Skingrad, specifically near a cavern known as Greyrock Cave.

"That's odd," mused Ilend as he handed the contract back to Ah-Malz. "I though Falanu and Sinderion had a virtual monopoly on alchemical supplies here."

Ah-Malz stared at the Imperial for a second before understanding him. "He was employed by Sinderion," he explained. "That Altmer never leaves the city, and he's too tight to buy his ingredients himself."

"Any advice?" asked Ilend, standing and checking that his sword belt was on properly.

"You'll probably find some ogres roaming around," warned Ah-Malz, putting his feet up on his desk. "Greyrock Cave has been a home to a fair few in the past. I'd normally say this was a two-Guildsman job, but seeing as you have those two 'assorted hangers-on', I'm guessing you'll take them instead."

"Will do," replied Ilend, opening the door and almost walking into Aerin, who'd clearly been eavesdropping. "You heard us. Get ready to move out." She nodded and hurried off to find Saliith. Within the hour, all three of them were saddling their horses.

* * *

Burz gro-Khash, upon waking up to find a strange Orc asleep in the bed next to him, had naturally been suspicious, but upon identifying Gorgoth both as the Hero of Kvatch and the new recruit from Anvil, he greeted him to the Guild in his gruff manner and had sent him off on a contract. The owner of a mine west of Cheydinhal had contracted the Fighter's Guild to clear it of goblins. Burz had sent Gorgoth along with some weapons for the Guildsmen and instructions to help them clear the mine once he'd delivered the weapons. A simple enough assignment.

Two goblins were patrolling around the entrance to the mine, if patrolling could be defined as picking their noses and grunting. Gorgoth decapitated both of them with his Akaviri dai-katana, which he'd found a suitable strap for, so the scabbard was now held in place slanting across his back. The blade was a good one; it cut through muscle and bone as though it was paper, and Gorgoth was big and strong enough to use it like any normal Blade would use a katana. Wiping the blade clean using a handful of grass, he sheathed it and moved into the mine.

The three Guildsmen were sitting around a small fire, and leapt to their feet with undisguised eagerness as Gorgoth arrived with the weapons. The Redguard archer, clad in studded leather, seemed to be the leader, and they discussed their plan of action. Gorgoth and the Orc, Brag gro-Bharg, being the strongest and most heavily armed and armoured, would take the lead, with Rienna just behind them, picking off threats, while Elidor, an Altmer swordsman clad in rusty mail, would cover the rear and stop any goblins from reaching Rienna.

"Seems like a good plan," grunted Gorgoth. "We should get this over and done with. I won't get too creative with the magic; it's too confined for much extravagance." The other Guildsmen exchanged curious glances, then muttered their assent and started off towards the gate leading to the bowels of the mine, drawing their weapons and assuming battle formation.

The goblins had apparently expected them; the dim light of wall-mounted torches revealed a sharp barricade at the entrance to the first cavern. Gorgoth smashed it apart with telekinesis before drawing his mace and charging through into the cavern, left hand crackling with lightning. A goblin yelled a warning to its comrades and leapt at him. The warrior-shaman smashed it aside with a second thought. It was hurled into a support beam, splintering ribs scything through its vital organs and embedding themselves in the aged wood of the beam. Two other goblins appeared from a small alcove, but before they could move, lightning smashed into them, jumping from one to the other, leaving nothing but charred ruins.

More goblins were pouring into the cavern. Brag roared a war cry and moved to meet them, a sweeping attack sending one goblin, its chest crushed, into another, slamming it into the cave wall. Elidor disembowelled one with a smooth movement, and Rienna, free to pick and choose her targets, took down two. Gorgoth mopped up the rest with pathetic ease, elemental spells lighting up the caverns, the screeches of dying goblins echoing throughout the mine as they fell with horrendous burns from fire, lightning, or frost covering their corpses. Soon, the floor of the cavern was littered with dead goblins, and the squad were moving up. The path forked. Rienna led Elidor and Brag down the right fork, leaving Gorgoth alone to deal with the horde of goblins awaiting him in the next cavern.

A shaman gabbled something and fired a lightning bolt from its staff at Gorgoth. The warrior-shaman's armour sparked, but the elemental magic was completely absorbed by his magical shielding. He moved in, kicking a berserker aside, and spread his arms wide, white magicka shimmering at his fingertips. A band of razor-sharp magicka exploded out across the cavern at waist height, cutting through every goblin in its path until it hit the mine walls and dissipated. Walking across the blood-soaked cavern filled with the goblin dead, most of whom had been cut in half, Gorgoth found the main passage blocked by a rock fall, so he retraced his steps and went down a smaller passage.

He found three goblins cowering in the corner. His dai-katana made a satisfying sound as it rattled out of its scabbard. A normal Imperial Legionnaire would struggle to use either of Gorgoth's weapons in one hand, let alone both at once, but Gorgoth had learnt from the best warriors Orsinium could produce, and then perfected his technique by mastering several different types of fighting, some of which he invented himself. Two of the goblins turned and frantically scrabbled at the rock wall, pathetically attempting to dig a way out and escape the walking personification of death that was drawing closer. The goblin that valiantly tried to combat the warrior-shaman had its legs knocked from under it, leaving it defenceless against the dai-katana that pierced its frantically beating heart. Realising the futility of their existence, the other two goblins went berserk and threw themselves against the wall, their blood streaking it even before Gorgoth put an end to their miserable lives.

Finding no other goblins to kill, Gorgoth returned to the first cavern. His Guildmates had just returned from their path, having dispatched all the goblins remaining in the mine. Gorgoth healed their only would – a slash on Elidor's forearm – and took his leave. He wanted to get back to Cheydinhal before dinner, having missed lunch, whereas they had orders to wait at the mine for another day to kill any goblins that'd been out at the time of the slaughter. Gorgoth exchanged farewells with his victorious Guildmates and mounted Vorguz, the stallion's hooves kicking clods of dirt over the two rotting goblin corpses lying outside the mine.

He reached Cheydinhal in good time. Burz gro-Khash was pleasantly surprised to see the warrior-shaman barge into the Guildhall so soon after leaving. The surly Guardian paid Gorgoth a full six hundred drakes, promoted him to Journeyman, and promptly told him that there was no more work to be had in the Fighter's Guild in Cheydinhal. However, he did recommend checking at the Guild regional headquarters in Chorrol; they occasionally needed internal issues that needed dealt with. Gorgoth grunted in acknowledgement, left the Guildhall, and looked up at the brightest part of the clouds. While the overcast conditions were not ideal for judging the time, he deemed it too late to leave for Chorrol and so resolved to explore Cheydinhal a bit.

Walking past the Chapel, he couldn't help noticing the run-down, abandoned house near the East Gate. To his trained eye, it was painfully obvious that the house was hiding something. He wondered how much the Dark Brotherhood was bribing the Count with. The warrior-shaman hesitated for a second, wondering to visit the sanctuary or not, but decided against it. He didn't want to have anything to do with the Brotherhood than was strictly necessary, and finding a point of entry to the Sanctuary would inevitably take too long. Gorgoth moved on, turning his thoughts to deciding where and what he wanted to eat.

* * *

Greyrock cave looked unthreatening from the outside; several plants had grown in cracks in the rock, making it seem almost welcoming. However, it was a well-known lair for a small clan of ogres, meaning that anyone in possession of common sense stayed well clear. Unless, of course, they were getting paid for going in.

"Remind me how much we're getting paid?" prompted Aerin, taking an arrow from her quiver and nocking it to Trueshot. Despite the biting wind and the certainty that it would be cold underground, the Bosmer had left her cloak in her saddlebags; it would restrict her movement too much.

"I think it's about eight hundred, eight fifty, something like that," replied Ilend, checking over the reins of the horses, making sure that they were all securely tied to a massive oak, while allowing them enough freedom to lie down. "High payouts like this don't come along any day, so they're well sought after, even if the drakes are split three ways."

Saliith snorted. "Make that a two-way split," he told Ilend. "Count me out of the payment; I've made shit-loads fighting in the Arena." The Argonian had loosened both his sinuous blades in their scabbards and was actually looking eager at the prospect of diving into the cave and wreaking havoc.

"Saliith, take point. Aerin, watch our backs. I'll carry the torch." Ilend was regretting his inability to recall the Light spell Martin had once taught him long ago; it had been months since he'd last cast it, thinking it effectively useless for a guardsman. It would have been far more convenient than carrying a torch.

Moss covered the walls of the cave, the flickering torchlight illuminating trickles of water dripping from the high ceiling as the Guildsman and his two companions moved down into the passageway. Their footsteps echoed unpleasantly throughout the cave, which had wide passageways and various cracks in the rock large enough to hide a rat. There was often the sound of a rat chattering away in its alcove, or an occasional squeal as the light of the torch hit its light-sensitive eyes.

Minutes after entering the cave, Ilend knew that there was something very wrong. The stench of death was starting to make itself known, and Saliith, who had the most refined sense of smell, claimed that he smelt ogre blood. Ilend was sure that it was his imagination, but in brief moments of silence, he thought he heard distant voices calling out to one another. Apparently, he wasn't alone in hearing this; Aerin hunched her shoulders and moved closer to him, looking around warily, and getting distracted by the smallest rockfall.

Saliith entered the first cavern, a large opening in the cave bordered with a large number of mushrooms, and stopped dead. Ilend and Aerin moved up beside him and stared at what had shocked the Argonian, Ilend holding the torch up so that they could see properly. The mound of grey flesh lying on the rocky floor before them was undoubtedly that of an ogre, and it was definitely dead; there was a blood trail from the stump of its neck leading to the head, which had rolled several feet away from the rest of the body. Ilend was the first to move, kneeling down beside the dead ogre and examining the wound.

"A battleaxe did this," he told them, keeping his voice low; even so, it sounded like a shout in the dead silence that had befallen Greyrock cave. "A wandering alchemist didn't do this." His voice was grim as he straightened, and his grip on the torch tightened until his knuckles, hidden under his gauntlets, grew white.

"Bandits?" rasped Saliith, looking around for any hidden listeners.

"Possibly," replied Ilend, peering over at the only other passageway leading out of the cavern. "It's not often that a band would pluck up the courage to take a base of operations from a clan of ogres, though." He sighed, but kept his back straight; he wasn't about to show weakness and dispirit his companions. Keeping morale up was a valuable lesson that his Watch Sergeant training had taught him. "Well, I don't see the point in us waiting around here. Let's move on."

Saliith led the way down the next passage, which started off narrow, but then widened out. Ilend kept close behind him, at times even holding the torch over the lizard's shoulder. Aerin kept even closer, occasionally turning and walking backwards for a few seconds, sometimes half-drawing Trueshot at the faintest footfall. Ilend didn't blame her for her twitchiness; he was now convinced that the voices he kept hearing in the distance were real. Clefts in the rock walls provided planet of places for an ambush, and more than once the Imperial thought he saw something move in the shadows.

Upon turning a corner, they were confirmed by another dead ogre slumped against the cave wall. Two arrows were lodged in its chest, but Ilend discerned that they hadn't penetrated the tough flesh enough to kill it; this theory was backed up by the fact that the ogre's small, ugly head had been cleaved in two by a battleaxe. Moving on, they entered another, smaller, cavern, to find four more ogres, all dead, lying around on the floor, accompanied by another corpse. Saliith moved closer to get a better look.

"This is no ogre," he rasped, turning the dead bandit over to reveal some bloodstained fur. The Khajiit's chainmail armour evidently hadn't saved it's skull from being crushed by an ogre's massive fist. The lizard looked up. "I somehow don't think this Loran bloke has any hope of survival."

"Well, there's always hope," countered Ilend, drawing his longsword. The daedric steel made a satisfying rasp as it left the scabbard.

Aerin snorted. "That's not what Gorgoth says," she muttered, peering into every shadow intently.

"You may have noticed that we might be slightly different, Aerin," growled Ilend as he motioned for her to bring up the rear, starting down another passage. "Keep the noise down, we don't want to announce our presence to every bandit on Nirn." Aerin rolled her eyes but thankfully kept her silence.

Another dead ogre greeted their entrance to a much larger cavern, its beady eyes looking full of malice even with a sword sticking out of its gut, but the main attraction of the cavern was the Imperial lying dead in the centre of it. As Aerin took a vantage point on a small rocky ridge, Ilend moved over to the body to identify it.

The Journeyman sighed. "It's Loran all right," he muttered, closing the alchemist's staring eyes, ignoring the wound that split his torso in two and exposed his ribcage. "Looks like he was killed with the same battleaxe," he observed, wresting the dead Imperial's wedding ring off his finger. It felt too much like desecration of the dead for Ilend's liking, but it was what his wife had requested.

"Well, at least we can scarper," sighed Aerin. "I don't-" She was cut off by Saliith hissing and raising a clenched fist. All three fell silent, hardly daring to breathe, as they listened to the voices that were coming closer.

"All eight were killed. We couldn't recover most of the bodies, but none of them made it to the rendezvous." The accent was clearly that of High Rock; obviously, the Breton hadn't been born in Cyrodiil. He sounded annoyed about something.

"As I expected. He's not going to fall prey to something that easy." The answering voice was far deeper than the Breton's cultured tones, and the words were roughly pronounced, as though the Orc had never perfected his Cyrodiilic. His voice was less angry than that of his companion; clearly he'd been expecting whatever news had just been delivered. "Just like I thought, we're going to have to contact the Redguard," he continued, drawing closer to the cavern where Ilend, Saliith, and Aerin were hanging on every word, with weapons drawn.

"Are you sure we can trust him?" asked the Breton. Moments later, before the Orc could reply, torchlight showed in the passage and the owners of the voices stepped into the cavern, directly across from where the intruders had emerged.

The Breton was lightly clad in some sort of animal furs, and carried a Morningstar mace hanging from his belt, a torch clutched in his hand. His short stature was accentuated by the fact that his companion was massive, and he was wearing heeled boots, probably in an effort to strive for more height. His hairline was rapidly receding, and his nose had been broken more than once, but his brown eyes were alert, and full of shock at finding three intruders in a supposedly safe cave.

In contrast, the Orc was not surprised; in fact, he nodded to himself as though he'd been expecting an incursion of this kind. He was clad head to toe in a massive suit of Orc-wrought plate armour, the dark grey metal looking both fearsome and purposeful. There were pits and scars in the metal from where it had seen battle, and there was a large rent in his open-face helm around the area of his most distinguishing feature; a wicked, cruel scar that reached from his temple to his jawline, running through the jagged hole that used to be his left eye socket. A huge battleaxe strapped to his back completed the picture.

Aerin gasped, instantly half-drawing Trueshot. "Burzukh," she murmured, wide eyes fixed on the Orc's scar.

Burzukh gro-Ghash cocked his head to one side, a smirk playing at a corner of his mouth as he studied Aerin, his dark tongue running over his prominent canines. "I thought you would remember me," he growled. "It's not often that you come across someone stupid enough to forget this face." A snarl contorted his features as he spat, his saliva splattering the dry rock floor of the cavern.

Ilend glanced to Aerin, then looked back at Burzukh. "You two know each other?" he queried, his face a picture of pure confusion.

"No," replied Aerin, shaking her head. "I've only seen him once, that's all. But he and Gorgoth have a history, I think."

"A history?" snarled Burzukh, pulling his battleaxe off his back. His Breton comrade quickly gripped his Morningstar, throwing his torch to the floor. "Don't talk about things you don't know, girl." He swore vehemently in his own language, then turned to Ilend. "What the fuck are you doing here, Imperial?"

"I could ask you the same question," replied Ilend, staring defiantly at the massive Orc, whose battleaxe was nearly as tall as Ilend. "We're here legally, investigating the murder of this poor sod-" he motioned towards the corpse of Loran "- whereas you seem to have moved in here and murdered him. Not the best for public relations." The Imperial's sword was held low, but he could move into a combat stance at any moment.

Burzukh snorted. "You're not the Guard," he observed. "Means you're the Fighter's Guild. I'd send you on your way, as you're no real threat, but... you've annoyed me." The Orc's eye hardened, and he hefted his battleaxe. The Breton started to swing his Morningstar, building up momentum. "Seeing as you have no weapon that can get past my armour..." he left the sentence hanging and took a step forward, an evil grin spreading over his face.

Aerin drew and released an arrow before Burzukh had taken a second step. He changed his posture at the last minute, but he was too close to Aerin for the expert marksman to miss; the arrow punched through the formidable Orcish battle armour as though it was paper and embedded itself in Burzukh's shoulder. The Breton stopped short in his tracks, looking wide-eyed from the warrior beside him to the archer in front of him. He never heard Saliith's throwing knife swishing through the air until it tore through his throat.

The Orc's snarl of pain and rage echoed throughout the caverns as he dropped to a semi-crouch and took a step back. Aerin had another arrow drawn, ready to loose, while Ilend and Saliith were moving forward slowly, circling around Burzukh, whose axe had drooped. The Orc raised a hand. "Enough," he growled. "I have twenty men awaiting my order to pounce upon you, but I am not one to tempt fate. You have five minutes to leave." With that, he turned and sprinted for the passage with a speed that would have been impressive even if he was unarmoured. Aerin, refusing to shoot someone in the back, relaxed Trueshot's bowstring.

"Well, that was... odd," observed Saliith, retrieving his throwing knife from the Breton's throat but keeping his swords drawn. "What do we do now?"

Ilend was staring down the passageway that Burzukh had disappeared down with an odd look on his face, but he shook himself, sheathed his sword, and turned to leave. "You heard him. If I'm going to ever take on twenty bandits, then it'd have to be for a lot more than what we're getting paid now. Come on." He led the way back up the way they had come, the torch almost failing a few times. He sincerely wished that he'd remembered that Light spell Martin had taught him.

The wounded Orc was true to his word; despite seeing at least two bandits hidden in alcoves, the Guildsman and his companions made it to the surface safely. Aerin sagged, pressing hands to her knees, as she leant against the moss-covered rock. "Next time I see Gorgoth, I am _definitely_ asking him some very prying questions," she panted. Her intentions were shared by both Ilend and Saliith.

* * *

**A/N: Yes, that surly Orc from Chapter Seven is back, and he means business. I'll remind you all once again to leave a review. They can only help me, and it's only a few minutes of your time...**


	17. The Pursuit of Vengeance

**A/N: In case you're wondering, the dropdown title for this chapter features the number 17 because the lettering wouldn't fit; it's a long title. Hopefully, after the rather poor showing of the last chapter, I have improved, but, be warned; no fighting in this one, it's very much a plot advancement chapter. Also, six reviews is OK, but Chapter 15 got 9... I know 15 is better than 16, but that's no excuse not to review... in fact, it's more of an incentive to review; you can help me out more by telling me where I went wrong. Anyhow, to those who did review, thanks.**

**Nomz: Yes, the Redguard will be significant in later chapters. Very significant for Gorgoth in particular. His full appearance won't come until much later, however.**

**Underpaid Critic: I love the Fighter's Guild as well; some of their quests are, quite simply, amazing. Gorgoth vs Ri'Zakar should be a good fight, if it comes to that.**

**Random Reader: For now, Saliith is staying well away from the Arena, but he WILL return in his own time.**

**That's all for now; I'll give you a strong reminder to review now, and an even stronger one in the ending author's note. Read on.**

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Seventeen: The Pursuit of Vengeance**

Gorgoth left Cheydinhal a few hours after sunrise, having stayed to have breakfast with the Guildsmen who'd just returned from the mine, now completely free of goblins. He'd stayed the night in the Guildhall, maintaining that sleeping in a free bed was far better than paying for a bed that wasn't much better. The well-rested Vorguz had been eager to go despite a light drizzle that caused spray to erupt from the ground wherever the stallion's hooves impacted. Gorgoth kept up a fairly fast pace, but didn't push as hard as possible; he was in no hurry, and didn't intend to tire himself or his horse needlessly.

The sun was dipping beneath the horizon when he guided Vorguz into the stable attached to the Roxey Inn, just north of the Imperial City. Throwing a septim to the ostler, he walked into the inn. Immediately, the usual atmosphere of a crowded inn washed over him. For an inn that was far from any major population centre, it was quite crowded; a squad of mercenaries occupied one table, drinking prodigious amounts of alcohol, while shooting dirty glances at a squad of Imperial Legionnaires at another table. The Legionmen, drinking nearly as much, periodically returned these dirty looks with glares of their own. Most of the other tables were occupied by travellers and couriers. Gorgoth took all this in with one sweeping glance, then walked over to the bar.

"How much for a bed for the night?" he asked the Nord innkeeper as he eased himself onto a bar stool and leaned on the bar.

"Ten drakes, though I wouldn't call it a bed," she snorted. "It ain't much. If its luxury you're after, you're in the wrong place." At least the Nord was honest; plenty of publicans would claim that a filthy bedroll was a four-poster bed fit for an Emperor.

"I'll take it," grunted Gorgoth, sliding ten septims over the bar. The innkeeper tucked them away somewhere in her dress with the speed and precision that came from years of running an inn.

"Upstairs, second door on the left, when you're ready for it," she told him. "Anything else?"

"Beer, and something with a lot of meat," replied Gorgoth, aware of his near-empty stomach. He got up off the bar stool and found an empty table near the door. The warrior-shaman removed his gauntlets and stretched out his legs under the table, so much so that his feet almost protruded out from under it on the other side. A handful of the patrons glanced at the Orc, but dismissed him and went back to their business. Some newcomers attempted to sit at his table, but one cold glance sent them scurrying off to find somewhere else to sit. Gorgoth never appreciated strangers eager to make small talk.

He was gulping down his second beer and awaiting his meat when an Imperial flopped down heavily in the seat across from Gorgoth. The warrior-shaman put down his tankard and was about to issue another cold stare when the Imperial leant back and showed Gorgoth the hilt of his Akaviri katana. This was the only clue as to his occupation; he was dressed in nondescript, lower-class clothing that would blend in anywhere.

"What can I do for you, brother?" asked Gorgoth. The appearance of the Blade wasn't unexpected; he'd been waiting from word from Cloud Ruler Temple for days now.

"You're not hard to track down, but you do move around a lot," smiled the Blade, leaning forward and resting his folded arms on the table. "We received word from Baurus and Glenroy. Jauffre can tell you more at Cloud Ruler Temple." The Imperial abruptly stood. "My task is done," he told Gorgoth, and left as quietly as he had come. He'd been in the inn for less than two minutes.

Gorgoth rethought his travelling plans. He'd have less distance to travel, but it would be uphill, colder, and slower than the route to Chorrol. He still intended to leave early the next morning. Finishing off his second tankard of beer, he shoved it away and looked around for his meat; he could smell it cooking in the kitchen. Another Imperial appeared and sat down at Gorgoth's table. He was old, seventy at least, and his tanned skin had the appearance of aged leather. Most of his hair was gone, but above a well-trimmed goatee, his blue eyes were clear, and focused on Gorgoth. He was wearing some kind of brown, well-worn tunic, with a broadsword in a scabbard on his sword belt.

"Did I hear that young lad mention Cloud Ruler Temple?" he asked, his voice sharp. Gorgoth suspected that it was the old man's normal tone.

"I don't see what business it is of yours," replied Gorgoth, staring levelly at the wizened Imperial, who held his gaze.

"Oh, it's my business all right," sighed the Imperial. "I happen to be going there, and I think it'd be better if I – we – were accompanied by a Blade."

"We?" asked Gorgoth. "Who is with you, and what is your business there?" He kept his posture the same, leaning back in his chair, but his senses were on heightened alert.

Instead of answering, the old Imperial waved to someone over Gorgoth's shoulder, motioning them over. Gorgoth looked up at their approach and raised an eyebrow fractionally. The woman taking the seat across from him didn't fit any one race, so he instantly classified her as a half-breed. Leaning back in his chair, the warrior-shaman folded his arms and examined her. As he had told Aerin on more than one occasion, he had little understanding on non-Orcish beauty, but he could tell that any man or mer with eyes would find the woman in front of him striking. Several of the mercenaries were constantly shooting her sidelong glances, and so were the Legionnaires, though with less frequency, and a lot more concealment.

The old man's companion was almost as tall as him, with a golden tinge to her skin and slightly pointed ears, a clear sign of her Altmer blood. Her golden hair was luxuriant and cascaded in gentle waves to her shoulder blades. Emerald-coloured eyes set in a perfectly-formed, slightly long face stared at the Orc, full of challenge, indicating that at least she had some spirit to match her appearance. The half-elf's armour was like nothing Gorgoth had ever seen; light steel plate armour covered her arms, and steel boots and greaves reached to mid-thigh, providing good protection for her limbs, but her torso, arguably the most vulnerable part of the body, was covered only by a flimsy chainmail cuirass that left most of her midriff bare, displaying a stomach that many women would only fantasize over. Moving down, a short chainmail skirt seemed to protect her modesty but little else. Gorgoth's left eyebrow twitched.

"Is that armour or a lap-dancer's costume?" he rumbled.

Her face turned a light shade of red as she blushed, but she continued to hold his gaze. "It worked well enough as armour last time it saw action," she told him. The half-elf's voice was rich and melodious; Gorgoth wouldn't be the one to know, but he suspected that she was good at singing. "The point is, _this_ is why we're going to Cloud Ruler Temple." She threw a sheathed katana onto the table. It rolled over and stopped a few inches from Gorgoth.

The Orc disguised his curiosity as he picked up the blade. It was undoubtedly of Akaviri design, being very similar in appearance to the larger katana strapped to his back. This katana, however, was far older than his relatively new dai-katana. He bared a few inches of the blade, and quirked an eyebrow at the presence of blood on the weapon. He drew the sword fully and noted that most of the sharp edge bore bloodstains. Touching the dried blood with his bare hand, it crumbled to powder, spilling onto the table, but the experienced Orc recognised it for what it was. "You should clean Dremora blood off the blade as soon as possible," he grunted, sheathing the katana and replacing it gently on the table. "Left for too long, some of their blood can etch the metal."

"Thought I'd cleaned all that crap off..." muttered the Imperial under his breath. He looked up and fixed Gorgoth with an impatient look. "Well? Will you come with us to Cloud Ruler Temple or not?" The old man's dry, sharp voice sounded like a whip cracking. "Don't beat about the bush, Orc, I hate it when the youth think it's funny."

"Youth?" growled Gorgoth. "I witnessed, took part in, the bloodbath that was the Bjoulsae Delta, old man. I doubt any there could describe themselves as young after witnessing that."

The Imperial snorted. "That may be so, Orc, not that I know anything about that, but you haven't answered my bloody question," he barked. "I hate wasting my time; it's inevitable that when you need time, you have none. Time is fickle."

Gorgoth grunted. "How did this happen?" he asked, indicating the katana lying on the table.

The half-elf sighed, and Gorgoth noticed that she seemed to be carrying a great burden; the slumping of her shoulders and her red-rimmed eyes spoke of immense grief held back by force of will. "It was my father's" she explained. "He fell holding back daedra from the planes of Oblivion. He was a hero, a Blade to the last." Her shoulders straightened, and she looked Gorgoth in the eye. "I _will_ honour his memory," she told him in a firm voice.

Gorgoth's subconscious mind clicked, and he realised what the half-elf was describing to him. "Whiterock Island," he muttered, noting their shocked expressions and exchanged glances. "No, news does not travel that fast, and I doubt many people care about a forgotten island miles off the coast of Anvil," he told them. "I obtained news of what happened on your island by... other means." He certainly wasn't about to tell them about his connection with Daedra who'd almost certainly taken part in the killing of their friends and family.

The Imperial grunted. "Well, it matters not," he grunted. "Will you come with us to Cloud Ruler Temple? I'm loath to believe that the Blades would let one of _your_ kind in, but it'd probably streamline the process. I hate standing unnecessarily out in the cold." His companion nudged him and muttered something in his ear, probably to tell him to tone down his racism, as it would probably hurt their chances of gaining aid.

Gorgoth tapped one of his canines and thought about the man and half-mer across from him. He was in no doubt that what they said was true, and while they would slow his journey tomorrow, neither had a reason for sticking a dagger in his back. He wanted an old Blade, heroically fallen in battle, to be honoured just as much as they did. If their story was accurate, then his katana deserved a place of honour in the great hall of Cloud Ruler Temple. He regarded them levelly. "I am leaving for Cloud Ruler just before dawn tomorrow," he told them. "If you wish to join me, feel free to meet me at the stable. I will not wait past dawn."

Relief was evident on the half-elf's face, while the old Imperial merely grunted, nodded, and stood, jerking his head over to the table they had previously occupied and making his way over to it. His companion lingered for a second, then joined him. A few seconds later, Gorgoth's meal finally arrived, and he settled down to the task of quelling his hunger.

After downing a few more tankards of beer and devouring most of the boiled meat, Gorgoth became aware of someone watching him. The Khajiit was leaning back against the far wall of the tavern, the first two legs of his chair off the floor, resolutely ignoring the two Imperials eating quietly at his table. His amber eyes were fixed on Gorgoth, and his gaze did not change as the Orc returned his look. The Khajiit was without doubt a Suthay or a Suthay-raht; his fur was a deep gold, almost deep enough to be called golden-brown. Dark, form-fitting leather armour covered most of his body apart from his feet and head, offering some little protection while not compromising his agility, and showing off an impressive physique. The leather stopped short of his hands, leaving his claws unhindered in the damage they could deal. At the moment, the cat's ears were laid back along his head, and his posture was one of relaxation, but Gorgoth was willing to bet that he could draw the war axe at his belt within seconds. The Khajiit's most distinctive feature was a black streak of fur over his right eye; apart from that, he could have blended into any Elsweyr crowd.

Gorgoth finished off his last tankard, pushed his seat back, and stomped over to the innkeeper. After finding out the cost of his meal, which to him seemed extortionate, he paid and turned back to the corner the Khajiit had been in. It was empty, apart from the two Imperials sitting at the table. Gorgoth hadn't expected the cat to stay; he seemed sensible enough to know when he'd been spotted. The Orc snorted quietly and went up to his room. Something about the Khajiit had stirred something in Gorgoth's memory, but it ran through his hands like water as he tried to grasp it.

As the innkeeper had told him; it was nothing special; the room was a tiny cubicle for an Orc as large as Gorgoth; the bedroll took up half the available space, and there were no other furnishings. The window was tiny and jammed shut. However, the warrior-shaman had slept in far worse places, and the single point of entry made it easy to secure. After setting his various traps, Gorgoth proceeded to remove his armour and most of his clothing, stacking it in a slightly neat pile at the foot of the bedroll, leaving him to crawl under the blankets wearing nothing but the ragged loincloth that had been with him since the Imperial Prison. The irony of going from condemned prisoner to heroic saviour was not lost on Gorgoth. Sleep came quickly.

* * *

"It was the Roxey Inn, north of the Imperial City. I got here as quickly as I could." That much was evident; the Khajiit was still panting, hands on knees, from his sprinting through the caverns, and outside, his horse was in similar shape, steam rising from its flanks, dissipating into the cold night air. "I know it was him," continued the Khajiit, the black streak over his right eye seeming even darker in the torchlight. "I know nothing of his plans, but I suspect he is going north." The cat forced himself to straighten. It would not be good to show weakness under the gaze of his superior, even after serving under him for the last six years. Those years had also eroded the normal Khajiiti way of speaking; the master had never liked it when they referred to themselves in the third person.

"You have done well, Do'kazirr," reassured a shadowy figure, hidden by the shadows thrown by a rock formation. "I expected it to take longer to track him down... apparently; he is good at keeping a low profile." The figure rubbed his chin, which was as smooth as his voice. "Our new ally will have to be informed. Send Jo'danirr to me; I have to compose a message." A wave of his hand combined with the command dismissed Do'kazirr, leaving the figure alone to contemplate his next move against an old acquaintance.

* * *

After dispelling all his traps and making sure his armour was on properly, Gorgoth left his hired room and headed down to the stables. The common room of the Roxey Inn was empty at this hour; even the Nord proprietor was sleeping behind the bar. Gorgoth stepped out into the grey predawn and moved over to where Vorguz was stabled. He felt no need to wake an ostler; he'd been caring for and training his own horses for over a decade. The Orc needed no man or mer to do a job that he could do himself.

The sun was spreading tendrils of light over the grey horizon as Gorgoth checked his saddlebags for the last time and prepared to mount. There was no sign of the old Imperial or the half-Altmer he'd met in the Inn yesterday. The Orc had dismissed them from his mind and was about to mount when he heard footsteps crunching on the straw. He turned to see the half-elf approaching him, her appearance unchanged from yesterday apart from the distracted look on her face. "Gnaeus refuses to cut short his sleep for the whim of an Orc," she told him, her tone one of exasperation. "He said he'll rise at dawn and no earlier." She sighed, her shoulders slumping.

Gorgoth looked down at her stonily. "I sense much magicka flowing through you," he grunted. "Why did you not shock him a few times? In my experience, that is an adequate cure for laziness." He kept one hand on Vorguz's back, ready to hoist himself up into the saddle.

The half-elf made a sound that could have been a snort or a giggle. "If I did that to Gnaeus... well, I don't think I'd be sitting down for a long time," she explained. "Besides, I do need him a bit..." She awkwardly traced lines in the straw with her booted foot, hands folded behind her back, not quite meeting Gorgoth's gaze. It suddenly struck Gorgoth how vulnerable she was; from what he'd heard and deduced, she'd either not set foot on mainland Tamriel for a long time, or had not set foot there at all. No-one would notice if these two islanders went missing; to them, they'd never existed in the first place. It would be all too easy for him to Silence the half-elf in front of him and do whatever he wanted with her, but that would accomplish nothing. Instead, he stepped away from Vorguz.

"If we're going to be travelling together, I'll need to know what name you go by," he rumbled, folding his arms.

She looked up. His movement had taken him closer to her, and if she was intimidated by the massive, heavily-armoured Orc looming over her, she showed no signs of it. "I'm Selene, and my companion is Gnaeus Magnus," she told him.

Gorgoth nodded. "I am Gorgoth gro-Kharz, warrior-shaman of Orsinium," he replied. "As you've probably deduced, I am a Knight Brother of the Blades." That was about us much they would get to know about him, unless he started to trust them a bit more. Knowledge, used well, was power almost beyond comprehension. "What race was your mother?" he asked, having already deduced that it was her father that was the Altmer; a human father would have given her his surname.

"A Breton," she replied, seeming startled by his interest.

Gorgoth nodded. "Altmer blood and Breton blood combining in one person will create potent magical ability," he mused, half talking to himself. "I thought I detected large reserves of magicka within you. If you are skilled enough to unleash it, then you are a powerful battlemage." He'd noticed that she had a finely-wrought steel glaive, almost as tall as she was, strapped across her back; that, combined with her armour, meant that she was no typical mage, to disregard mundane weapons and armour.

"Well, my father was a student of the Psijics at one point, and he taught me everything he knew," replied Selene. The sun was cresting the horizon behind Gorgoth, reflecting off the steel plates of her limb armour.

Gorgoth tapped one of his canines. "Psijic-trained is not the same as a fully-fledged Psijic, but respectable enough nonetheless," he observed. "I once considered going to Artaeum, but circumstances meant that it would be best if I stayed in Orsinium." In hindsight, Gorgoth recognised that his choice had been a good one; life at that time had given him vital lessons that he wouldn't have got under the guiding hand of Psijic teachers. Turning to squint at the sun, Gorgoth judged it to have risen enough to say it was now day.

"What horses are yours?" he asked, peering at the stabled row of sleep horses. There were five; two nags who'd seen better days, a fine bay that probably belonged to a mercenary who'd stayed the night, and two fine Anvil whites.

"The Anvil whites," Selene told him, moving over to one of the whites and starting to gently coax him out of sleep. "Gnaeus had a surprising stockpile of money that he thankfully managed to salvage from the island." A shadow passed over her face as she remembered the incident that had undoubtedly claimed the lives of almost everyone she'd ever known.

"I hate spending money," grumbled Gnaeus, appearing abruptly from around the corner, a pair of saddlebags slung over his back. "I probably won't even use this sodding animal much after I find solitude again, after we've dropped off this bloody katana." He ignored Selene's glare and started roughly attaching the saddlebags to his saddle, ignoring his horse's snort as it was rudely awakened.

Gorgoth ignored his mismatched companions and focused on checking over Vorguz. Satisfied that his steed was well-rested and ready to go, the Orc hauled himself into the saddle, adjusting his mace so that it didn't dig either him or Vorguz in the ribs. He gently heeled the stallion out of the paddock and into the road, shading his eyes from the rising sun; while there was significant cloud cover overhead, the sun had yet to reach it. The Orc turned to find Gnaeus and Selene following him out onto the road. "I do not believe in wasting time," he told them. "If you do not keep up, I will leave you behind." Gnaeus snorted something unintelligible, but Gorgoth was already getting Vorguz up to a trot.

The hard, fast pace set by Gorgoth made conversation nearly impossible, so the journey north to Bruma was mostly made in silence. As the trio progressed further north, the air grew colder, and the wind grew stronger. It turned out that while Gnaeus was well-stocked, Selene had left Whiterock Island wearing nothing but her armour and her underwear, and hadn't thought to buy any clothes, so she was forced to shiver without relief as the wind chilled her bare skin. Apparently, she'd never felt the need to warm herself using magicka on Whiterock, and Gorgoth wasn't about to stop to teach her. As they approached Bruma, frost soon became evident on the ground; soon, the snows would come, and generally they lasted deep into spring.

In Bruma, life went on as normal. The gate guards raised an eye at the oddly-garbed half-elf riding into the city, but didn't give her more than a second glance, returning to their cold, detestable gate guard duty. One hailed Gorgoth as the Hero of Kvatch before he was silenced by a glare that would have stopped a troll in its tracks.

"Hero of Kvatch?" harrumphed Gnaeus, looking Gorgoth up and down disapprovingly. "You seem to be more tyrant material than hero material. What happened at Kvatch?"

"Half the population was killed and most of the town destroyed by a raid in force by the forces of Mehrunes Dagon," replied Gorgoth, without batting an eyelid. "I appear to have picked up that blasted title as I was the most prominent warrior in the forces that closed the Oblivion Gate, retook the city, and drove the daedra back." Gorgoth snorted and shook his head. "Savlian Matius, his guardsmen, and others are not getting the credit they deserve."

"If you say so, Orc," growled Gnaeus, peering suspiciously at a passing Nord. "Back in my day, we wouldn't have rolled over so easily. Gah, the young guardsmen these days don't know a sword from a pair of nail clippers." The wizened Imperial snorted and muttered something under his breath about better days. Despite only wearing a light tunic, the cold didn't seem to be affecting him much.

"The guardsmen at Kvatch knew a lot more than what end to hold," replied Gorgoth. The ability of Savlian Matius, Ilend Vonius, and Menien Goneld, among others, to wield a blade with deadly precision had not been forgotten by the Orc. "Making judgements about a continent you have not set foot on for decades is unwise."

Gnaeus grunted. "You have a point there, Orc," he admitted. "Maybe you're not as stupid as the rest of the greenskins." He trailed off into unintelligible mutterings. Selene sighed and rolled her eyes.

"I think he's talked more in the last week than he did in thirty-five years on the island," she muttered, removing her gauntlets and covering her ears with her hands in a futile effort to keep them warm. Gorgoth finally decided to help and took a travelling cloak out of his saddlebag and wrapping it around her slender shoulders. She smiled in thanks and wrapped it around her body, pulling the hood up. The size of the cloak dwarfed her, but at least the thick material would keep her from turning into an icicle.

"That's because I'm surrounded by the bloody youth," barked Gnaeus. "They always do love to do nothing but talk. I don't understand why their tongues don't fall out."

"I could use magic to block up your ears," suggested Gorgoth. Gnaeus snorted and shook his head, instead choosing to peer intently at the gate guards as the party rode through Bruma's north gate. If the assorted Nords and Imperials were unnerved by the old hermit staring at them, they did not show it.

Once clear of the city, Gorgoth spurred the horses back up to speed, and soon they were approaching Cloud Ruler Temple. Selene's mouth dropped open in wonder as she laid eyes on the beautiful Akaviri construction for the first time, and Gnaeus gave an appreciative nod. Gorgoth was, as ever, impressed by the design, but he'd never let such features distract him in the past, and he didn't plan to start now. As the trio reached the gates, the massive, reinforced, oak-panelled barriers swung outward; evidently, the Blades had spotted them long ago. Gorgoth dismounted and led the way to the stables, returning the salutes of fellow Blades. After making sure that all three horses were in the care of the ostlers, the Orc turned to find Jauffre, clad in full Blades armour minus the helmet, striding up to him.

"It is good to see that you responded to the summons so quickly," intoned the Breton. "There is word from Baurus. But, firstly, who are your companions?"

Gorgoth motioned for Selene to explain their presence. The half-elf stepped forward, throwing back her hood and taking her father's katana from under Gorgoth's cloak. "This was my father's," she explained to Jauffre, her voice strong and proud. "He died defending those he loved from the hordes of Mehrunes Dagon."

The Breton took the katana and bared some of the steel. He raised an eyebrow at the daedric blood staining the blade and sheathed it. "I can verify her story," Gorgoth told him. "At least, some parts of it." He ignored the inquisitive looks Selene and Gnaeus were giving him. The Orc didn't want to know what would happen if he revealed his sources.

Jauffre grunted and nodded, pushing the katana through his belt. "Who was your father?" he asked.

"Merildan. An Altmer. He left the mainland twenty-eight years ago after being released from his oath." Selene paused. "I don't know any more than that."

A flicker of recognition appeared in the Breton's eyes as he heard Merildan's name mentioned. "Ah, yes, I remember him," he said, a faraway look appearing in his normally sharp eyes as he cast his memory back over the years. "He got involved in the War of Betony," he recalled. "That scarred him for life, I think, and Uriel released him from his oath when he asked; it was a reward for twenty years of loyal service." Jauffre sighed. "I remember him as being a fine swordsman, and a powerful battlemage. We could have used more men like him in these dark times." His gauntleted hand tightened over the hilt of Merildan's katana. "Yes, this will get the place of honour it deserves. For now, you must be tired after your journey from Anvil. You can rest in the East Barracks tonight. Gorgoth, I will talk to you later. Martin is in the great hall." The aged Grandmaster saluted and turned sharply, walking out of the stables in the direction of the great hall.

Gnaeus growled and stretched, the sound of his old bones popping making Selene wince. "Right, where's this East Barracks?" he asked Gorgoth. "I got soft on that island; I need eight hours sleep a day. I'm not as young as I used to be."

"Clearly," muttered Gorgoth as he nodded in the direction of the East barracks. Gnaeus walked off in that direction, working his muscles. The Orc stepped outside and looked up at the sky. It was hard to tell with the sun hidden behind the clouds, but his stomach was telling him that the time for dinner was rapidly approaching. He turned back to Selene, who was still staring in the direction that Jauffre had gone, taking the last memento of her father that she'd had. Clearly, her emotional dam was leaking; tears were trickling down her cheeks. Gorgoth waggled his fingers, his gauntlets making a grinding sound as his fingers rubbed together, requesting the return of his cloak. Selene looked round, startled, as though she'd forgotten he was there. She swiftly removed his cloak and gave it back to him. Gorgoth shoved it back into his saddlebags. "Would you like to meet the future Emperor?" he asked. She'd managed to close an Oblivion Gate; for that, she at least deserved the honour of meeting her future ruler.

Selene gave him an odd look. "I thought he and all his sons were dead," she said, her voice sounding confused.

"You passed Kvatch on your way here, did you not?" asked Gorgoth. She nodded. "That was Dagon's attempt at killing Uriel's fourth, illegitimate son. He failed. Martin Septim is a guest of the Blades here at Cloud Ruler Temple." Selene raised both eyebrows in surprise; clearly, she'd been none the wiser as to the repercussions of the bigger events in Tamriel.

Gorgoth jerked his head, telling her to follow him, and headed over to the great hall. He shoved the doors open, ignoring the cold air billowing around him into the cavernous building. A handful of Blades were warming themselves at the massive fireplace, but Gorgoth's eyes were immediately attracted to Martin, sitting alone at a table piled high with books, with an Imperial Blade, clearly his assigned bodyguard, sitting at another nearby table. The Orc shut the doors and walked over, taking a seat across from the heir, motioning for Selene to join him, which she did somewhat hesitantly.

Martin looked up, his eyes darting from the Orc to the half-elf, lingering for a few seconds before refocusing on Gorgoth. A smile brightened his face, but his deep-set eyes still spoke of fatigue. Apparently, the Blades were pushing him hard. "It is good to see you again, Gorgoth," he said in greeting, his rich voice full of warmth. His eyes once again darted to Selene before moving back, his curiosity – and possibly admiration for the half-elf's looks - evident.

"And you, Martin," replied Gorgoth. "I trust that you are training well?" The sullen look flitting across the heir's face was the only answer he needed. According to Jauffre, the Blades drill instructor was very good at what he did. "It is worth it, Martin," he continued. "In a desperate battle, on the back foot, I would fully expect the Emperor to lead a charge on the field of battle. To do otherwise would be to shirk your duty."

Martin sighed. "One more thing I have to worry about," he groaned, pressing his hands to his eyes. "Hopefully, that will never happen; when you get the Amulet back, Dagon cannot trouble us again."

Gorgoth could sense Selene prickling with both curiosity and impatience, and so finally decided to introduce her. "Martin, this is Selene, a battlemage who has closed an Oblivion Gate," he rumbled. "Selene, this is Martin, ex-priest of Akatosh and heir-apparent to the Sundered Throne of Tamriel."

"Closed an Oblivion Gate?" repeated Martin, eyebrows rising in admiration as he extended a hand. Selene hastily removed a gauntlet and shook his proffered hand. Both had calluses, Selene from intensive training with her glaive, and Martin from intensive training with a variety of swords, axes, polearms, and blunt weapons. "That is not a claim many people can make. I can sense considerable magical power in you."

Selene blushed slightly. "I did have a lot of help," she muttered, lowering her eyes and her voice as she recalled the inhabitants of Whiterock Island who'd fallen in Oblivion, her brother Hannibal being the most prominent in her memory. "I just happened to be the only one to make it out."

Martin's gaze softened, not that it had been hard to begin with, and he somewhat awkwardly patted her bare hand. "I know something of what you went through," he mumbled. "I saw friends, people I'd known for years, cut down without mercy. Dagon's minions do not know pity. I did all I could, but..." he sighed. "It still doesn't change the fact that I survived and they didn't."

"If you had died, and they had lived, we would all be doomed," growled Gorgoth. "At this moment, you are the most important living man in Tamriel, Martin. Remember that." The warrior-shaman stood. Selene moved to follow him, but he waved her back down. "I have business to discuss with Jauffre. We can talk later." He nodded to both of them and walked over to the Blades warming themselves by the fire. On the way, he paused to look at the katanas mounted in their places of honour on the wall, and recognised Merildan's katana, above a blank plaque. He assumed Jauffre would get the engraving done as soon as he could. The Blades by the fireplace told him that Jauffre was carrying out his normal patrols of the battlements before dinner.

Gorgoth found the Grandmaster leaning on the outer wall of the fortress, looking down towards Bruma, ignoring the strong wind chilling and beating at him. Gorgoth joined him, and for a few minutes they each leaned on the wall in silence, looking out across Cyrodiil, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Finally, the Orc and the Breton stepped back from the wall and started making their way back to the great hall.

"Baurus and Glenroy have made a breakthrough," started Jauffre. "They have been investigating the cult that was behind the death of Uriel and his sons, and they've uncovered vital information that has to be acted on quickly."

"Where do I need to go, and what do I need to go?" As always when talking about operations, Gorgoth was blunt and to the point.

"Baurus and Glenroy are staying at Luther Broad's Boarding House in the Elven Garden district," explained Jauffre. "You'll find at least one of them there; I sent the courier back with a message to expect you."

Gorgoth nodded. "I'll wait for the others to get here first," he replied. "It would be best if we went in strength; it's best to have considerable forces at your disposal. You never know when they might be needed."

"Well, I'd rather get the Amulet back sooner than later, but it's your choice, and you are right." Jauffre clapped Gorgoth on the shoulder. "I trust you, Gorgoth. Many wouldn't. Do not fail me."

Gorgoth slammed a fist into his chest in a rigid salute. "I will not, Grandmaster," he rumbled. Jauffre nodded and headed over to the armoury. Gorgoth, attracted by the aroma of roasting meat wafting over from the kitchens, headed to the canteen. Entering the warm atmosphere of the communal eating place, Gorgoth was reminded of the last time he'd eaten here. He mentally berated himself for showing such weaknesses and hoped it would never happen again. Martin and Selene were sitting at a table, apparently engrossed in a conversation regarding the book Martin was holding. Gorgoth ignored them and walked over to get something to blunt his hunger.

Within minutes, the warrior-shaman was sharing a table with several Redguards, shovelling down massive forkfuls of food while participating in an animated discussion about whether a dai-katana wielded in both hands was superior to a standard katana used with a shield. Apparently, it was an argument that cropped up often in Cloud Ruler Temple, and it was never really solved. The Redguards were impressed that Gorgoth used his dai-katana like a standard katana, but pointed out that this was a rare feat and could not be applied to the mainstream argument.

In seemingly no time, the sun had gone down, the darkness of night had descended across Cyrodiil, several barrels of beer had been consumed and most of the Redguards were heading to either shifts or to the West Barracks. Gorgoth pushed back his chair and rose. Most of the canteen was now empty; Martin and Selene had apparently taken their conversation back to the great hall. Gorgoth guessed that the half-elf was well-learned from having been stuck on an island since her birth, with few people but many books for company. Not feeling tired, the Orc decided to take a walk over the battlements.

He was pleasantly surprised to see a man, a mer, and an Argonian emerge from the stables. Given that they'd had to travel from Skingrad, he hadn't expected Ilend and Aerin until tomorrow at the earliest. However, he was unsure what Saliith was doing there; when he'd last seen the Argonian, he'd been an up-and-coming starlet of the Arena. Now, he seemed more mature, but a lot more downcast and a lot less cocky. They spotted Gorgoth and walked over to join him as he leant on the outer wall.

"Good to see ya, big guy," greeted Aerin, shivering in the gusts of wind despite her thick cloak. The cold weather didn't seem to have dampened her perpetually high spirits.

Before Gorgoth could respond, Saliith was at his other side, leaning on the outer wall. The Argonian seemed to be able to tell that Gorgoth wanted an explanation for his presence, and he was willing to give one. "Gorgoth, I needed to... stay away from the Arena for a bit," he told the Orc. "Personal issues. These two took me along for the ride. Something about serving the future Emperor of Tamriel."

Gorgoth tapped his canine. While having a warrior as good as Saliith with them would be useful, he preferred to know the full story. "Personal issues?" he asked. The Argonian visibly winced.

"I made Hero rank," he rasped, his voice unsteady. "I killed Branwen to get there." The Argonian growled something under his breath and shook his head, his eyes falling to the stone beneath his feet.

Gorgoth grunted. "You had no choice. She knows that. She will not blame you. You are still alive. Take comfort in that." He gripped the Argonian's shoulder firmly, bringing the lizard's eyes up. "Do not let this shadow plague you until your dying day," he rumbled. "Move on. She died well, at least. Better you than an honourless dog who would desecrate her corpse."

Saliith slumped, a shaky sigh rattling out of his chest. "You're right, Gorgoth, I'll... I just need a bit of time." Gorgoth nodded, and the Argonian started off to the great hall, presumably in an attempt to find warmth; for the cold-blooded Argonians, the chill of northern Cyrodiil could be fatal.

"The messenger didn't mention much," observed Ilend, leaning on the outer wall. "Care to fill us in, Gorgoth? I'd rather not walk ahead blind." The Imperial was wearing a thick cloak, but with the hood thrown back, and the wind had unfurled his hair, whipping it about like a very short banner.

"Baurus and Glenroy have found a lead worth pursuing in the Imperial City," explained Gorgoth. "The cult that assassinated the Emperor and his sons, the cult that raped Kvatch, the cult that took the Amulet of Kings... they are within reach."

Ilend turned and stared hard at Gorgoth. His hand found the hilt of his longsword and he gripped it, hard. "Good," he growled through gritted teeth. "The sooner I find those bastards and start handing out some righteous justice for Kvatch, the better." The Imperial's lip had curled into a snarl. Gorgoth nodded to himself; the memories of Kvatch were still raw, it seemed. The ex-guardsman did a good job of keeping them dormant.

"Uh, Gorgoth?" Aerin was looking anywhere but at Gorgoth, awkwardly scuffing the stones with her boot. "I – we – have something ta ask ya." She risked a glance up at him from under her long eyelashes; his face could have been carved from stone. As usual. Ilend forced the snarl from his face and nodded.

"Speak."

"Ya recall that Orc we met outside my shack in the Imperial City, before we left for Weynon Priory?" Her quavering voice betrayed her nerves. Gorgoth nodded. "Well, we – me, Ilend, and Saliith – ran into him again." Gorgoth said nothing, his face unmoving, his yellow eyes fixated on Aerin's blue. "He tried ta kill us, but we persuaded him otherwise, and he's got at least twenty bandits following him." The last sentence left her in a rush, and she shifted closer to Ilend, as though seeking protection from any anger emanating from the warrior-shaman. She need not have worried.

"Tell me everything he said." It was a simple statement, but both Aerin and Ilend could sense the intensity in both the tone of his voice and the force of the Orc's gaze. They hastily informed him of every detail of their meeting with Burzukh. Gorgoth's face remained unmoving throughout; his only movement was the steady rise and fall of his chest and the occasional blink. Once they had finished, he turned away and stared out across Cyrodiil, as though trying to see where Burzukh was. The Orc remained silent for several minutes, until Ilend cleared his throat.

"Gorgoth... what is your history with him?" asked the Imperial. His voice contained none of Aerin's nervousness.

The warrior-shaman turned to face them, and for a brief, fleeting moment, man and mer thought they saw some kind of emotion flicker across the Orc's face, but it was gone so quickly that it could just have been a trick of the light. "After I... ended my father's dominion over me, I started work as a freelance spellsword," he explained, his tone reminiscent. "Boring work, and unfulfilling, but it got me enough to survive, and more. Often, I did not work alone; I worked with many fellow mercenaries over the years, and grew close to several of them; I called them comrades. Burzukh was one of them." Gorgoth paused. The breath of all three of them shimmered and condensed in the cold night air, but none of them made any move to warm themselves.

"We worked together several times, but then he disappeared, about two and a half years ago." Gorgoth's face grew even harder, if that was possible. "He later resurfaced as the leader of a highly-trained, deadly force of bandits, preying on merchant wagons all over the Orsinium area." Gorgoth turned his head to look north-west, in the direction of the Wrothgarian Mountains. "Normally, King Gortwog allows certain levels of banditry; if the merchants are too idiotic to protect themselves enough, then they show weakness, and Malacath has always hated weakness." Ilend and Aerin exchanged glances, wondering over the Orcish concept of 'civilisation', before returning their gazes to Gorgoth.

"But Burzukh and his warriors were too effective. They burnt and pillaged so much that they were starting to adversely affect trade and commerce in Orsinium." The warrior-shaman shook his head. "My father asked me to hunt down him and his followers. I did not have to obey him, but it was for the good of Orsinium, so I agreed." Gorgoth's right hand was gripping his mace head. "I tracked down the band; there were seven of them following him, but they were all fine warriors in their own right. I fell upon them when Burzukh was away, and killed all but two of them. Burzukh fled to the higher mountains with his remaining companions, in the depths of winter."

"I finally caught up with them, high up in the mountains, where snow lies all year round." Gorgoth's thick eyebrows drew down momentarily, before he returned to his normal stoic expression. "I remember it well. In the midst of a blizzard, I killed Burzukh's two companions and took Burzukh's eye, but he was, and still is, a warrior of great skill; he wounded me badly, and had the good sense to coat his battleaxe with a potent poison of Silencing. Until I could heal my wounds, I could not follow him, and by then he was on his way out of Orsinium." Gorgoth stepped back from the outer wall and regarded his companions, his eyes devoid of any emotion. "You should feel honoured. That is not a part of my past that I share with many."

"Uh... yeah... much obliged, big guy," stammered Aerin, abruptly noticing that it was hours past sunset and drawing her cloak tighter around her, shivering. "At least we now know what we're up against if we come across him again." She hesitated. "Thanks."

Gorgoth snorted and waved them away. "Go and get some rest. You will need it. I require time to think." He returned to the outer wall and leaned both arms on it, his back to them, a clear sign of dismissal.

"Sleep sounds good," said Ilend, realising how tired he was for the first time. They'd ridden hard from Skingrad, without much rest. He yawned and stretched. "Come on, Aerin, let's do as the wise old Orc suggests, unless you feel hungry?"

The Wood Elf shook her head, shooting a distracted glance at Gorgoth's back as she followed Ilend over to the East Barracks. "I'm more tired than hungry," she mumbled. In her time at Skingrad, her body had grown accustomed to the amount of sleep it had been getting; now that she was back under Gorgoth's command, she supposed that she'd better get used to being tired again.

The door to the East Barrack banged shut behind them. A few more beds were occupied than the last time they'd been here; apparently, Saliith had decided that rest was preferable to being awake and was slumped on a bedroll located in the middle of the barracks, his scaled armour laid out neatly on the next bedroll, looking ready to climb into. A handful of Blades were sleeping in the area furthest from the door to the courtyard, presumably for warmth. Two bedrolls, fairly close to each other, were occupied by two people, an old, wizened Imperial with skin like a walnut, and a good-looking woman who didn't appear to belong to a single race, who didn't look like Blades material, though it was hard to tell, as most of their bodies were covered by blankets.

Ilend removed his cloak and dumped it onto a bedroll near the courtyard door. Aerin imitated him and threw her cloak over a bedroll two along from the Imperial. Quirking an eyebrow at their proximity, Ilend started to strip off his chainmail, muting his exertions somewhat in order not to wake the sleepers. Aerin squeezed out of her own 'armour' and reached up to release her hair from its high ponytail, letting it flow freely to her waist. Ilend, about to tug off his boots, did a sudden double-take as she started to peel off her clothes, stripping to her underwear before somewhat sheepishly sliding under her blanket. "More comfortable," she explained when she saw him staring. The Imperial smirked, shook himself, and finished piling his armour in a haphazard pile at the foot of his bedroll.

"You still haven't let me massage you yet," he observed, keeping his face straight as he removed his shirt, which was stained with the sweat accumulated from being worn under heavy armour in times of exertion. He slid under his blankets and propped himself up on his elbow, facing Aerin.

"That's because I know you'd make a bloody mess of it, ya clumsy guardsman," she sighed, rolling her eyes, and slumping down into the bedroll, staring up at the ceiling. "What do ya think's gonna happen in the City?" The Bosmer shifted around until she found a position that was comfortable and not to exposed to draughts.

Ilend shook his head and lowered himself the rest of the way down. "I don't know, Aerin," he replied, his voice grim. "But I know I'm going to make those daedra-sucking cultist bastards pay for what they did to Kvatch." The Imperial sighed and forced the heat from his voice. "Get some rest; we all need it. What's that thing that Gorgoth says? 'May you live to see the morning'?" Ilend smirked. "I think I'll leave it at a 'good night, Aerin', myself."

"'Night, Ilend."

* * *

Gorgoth had stayed on the battlements until well after midnight, thinking about events ranging from Burzukh to the Amulet of Kings to Baurus and Glenroy to his companions. Eventually, he retired to bed, but was still the first to rise, casting a modified Silence spell over himself as he donned his armour to avoid waking the others. The canteen was mostly deserted when he entered, but as he sat eating breakfast, a few Blades from the night shift entered, and gradually Cloud Ruler Temple started to wake up. The first person to appear from the East Barracks was Selene; casting an impressed eye at Gorgoth's plate piled high with food, she took a seat next to him. She was already in full armour; presumably, she still didn't have anything else to wear.

"Martin seems to be very knowledgeable," she told him, ignoring the normal exchanging of greetings and launching straight into conversation. "If he's going to be Emperor, then they can do a lot worse than him."

"So living in isolation on an island for your entire life makes you an expert on politics?" asked Gorgoth levelly, his tone unchanging despite the obvious sarcasm of his words.

"Hey, I did read a lot," defended Selene. "Besides, he seems like a good man, at least. He'll do what is right."

"Politics, Selene, politics," rumbled Gorgoth. "In Cyrodiil, it's a cutthroat business; only the Bretons can outdo the Imperials. Being nice won't get Martin far with the Elder Council." The Orc snorted. "In Orsinium, politics are so much simpler."

"I'm just trying to put things in a good light," pouted Selene, folding her arms and fixing him with a critical expression. Gorgoth snorted as he shovelled two rashers of bacon into his mouth at once.

"You're an optimist, I'm a realist," he told her. "There happens to be a significant difference." The Orc changed the subject to more pressing matters. "What will you do now?" he asked her, wiping a stray trail of grease from his chin.

The half-elf grimaced slightly at the Orc's complete lack of basic table manners, but left it at that. "I honestly don't know," she sighed. "Until Gnaeus wakes up, I have no idea what we're going to do; I can hardly make a decision without him."

"I'm awake, and you shouldn't rely on a grouchy old git all the time," barked Gnaeus from behind them, causing Selene to jump in astonishment. Gorgoth ignored the old Imperial completely, spearing a sausage and staring at it critically. Gnaeus dropped into a seat across from the half-elf and started to attack his food, which looked exactly like Gorgoth was eating, the only difference being that there was a lot less of it. "What were you thinking of doing?" he asked Selene. "You must have had some idea; don't bore me with that inexperience drivel."

Before Selene could respond, Gorgoth butted in. "I could use a battlemage when I go to the Imperial City," he told them. "None of my companions have much aptitude with magic, and it would be helpful if all the magical work wasn't done by me." Gorgoth leaned closer to Selene, his eyes locked with hers. "You could avenge your family," he told her, his voice a low growl.

Selene jerked upright, eyes burning. "Revenge won't bring them back," she said, but her words sounded hollow; it was evident that she and Ilend both shared an intense hatred of Mehrunes Dagon and his daedra, the invaders that had taken so much from them. After a few seconds, the half-elf nodded. "I suppose it might help ease the pain," she sighed, rising. "When do we leave?"

"Soon. We assemble in the stables in about half an hour." Gorgoth turned to Gnaeus. "What about you, Magnus?"

The old Imperial harrumphed. "I've seen more than enough fighting in my day, Orc," he replied. "As soon as I'm done eating, I'm off to find somewhere that these young whippersnappers and their problems won't trouble me." He snorted again and returned to his plate.

"No, you don't, Gnaeus," whispered Selene emphatically. "I need at least someone I know nearby, or... I'm lost." She gestured around her, somewhat helplessly. "Besides, we could use your blade."

"Fine! Take it!" Gnaeus actually drew his broadsword – Gorgoth noted that it was fashioned from high quality ebony – and laid it on the table, but Selene shot him a withering look.

"You know what I mean, Gnaeus," she said, her tone frosty. "You'll meet us in the stables in half an hour, or I'll follow you to wherever you start to set up your hermitage and torment you until the end of your days." She turned on her heel and stalked off.

"She seems forceful," observed Gorgoth, looking down at his now-empty plate and pushing it away from him.

Gnaeus sighed and shook his head, his brows drawn down in a thunderous frown. "You have no idea," he muttered. Gorgoth grunted and stood, leaving the Imperial to pick at his breakfast while he wandered over to the East Barracks. On the way, he found Jauffre and told him to get someone to prepare their horses. The Breton seemed pleased to hear that they were leaving as soon as possible and approached several Blades lounging around in the great hall, presumably to press-gang them into being ostlers.

Ilend, Saliith, and Aerin were still asleep, so Gorgoth moving among them, gently kicking them awake. Within minutes, partly in response to his forceful urges and exhortations, they were all pulling on their armour, looking bleary-eyed and still tired. Gorgoth hoped that they could get some proper sleep soon; they'd undoubtedly need it for hunting the cult of assassins. He growled for them to eat breakfast quickly and walked out of the barracks, heading to the battlements.

It was raining, a light drizzle that Gorgoth barely felt on his thick skin, but within minutes it was running down his armour in trickles. The grey skies overhead stretched from horizon to horizon, and morning fog covered the peaks of the Jeralls. A handful of Blades were keeping a brazier going with ease; Gorgoth idly wondered whether they were magically enchanted. He joined Captain Steffan in leaning on the battlements, attempting to make out the spire of the Chapel of Talos rising from the gloom. "Nice morning for the forces of shadow," remarked the Knight Captain, somewhat cryptically. "Be wary of ambushes." The Imperial was completely ignoring the rain dripping from the noseguard of his helmet.

"I've survived, and set up enough, in my time to know how to thwart one," Gorgoth grunted. "Besides, there is no doubt that Aerin will want a magical shield put up to keep the rain off her." The warrior-shaman snorted. "Should the snows be coming soon?"

"Should be starting within a few weeks," observed Steffan. "If it gets a bit colder, we could even have em tomorrow. You'll want to miss them for sure."

Gorgoth nodded and tapped a canine, casting his mind back and remembering blood soaking the snow, turning it the darkest of crimsons, on a battlefield somewhere in High Rock. When the thaws came, the streams had run red. The Orc hadn't seen true, proper battle for a while – his participation in the Battle of Kvatch being a mere skirmish by his standards – and while he would not actively seek it out, he'd willingly throw himself into any battle, even one with long odds, if the cause was worth fighting for. He left Steffan alone on the battlements and returned to the great hall.

Martin was already immersed in a book, the number of volumes on his table having decreased somewhat. Not wanting to interrupt his studies, Gorgoth merely grunted a greeting and moved on, sparing a glance for the wall of Akaviri katanas. Merildan's name had been engraved on the plaque under his katana. The Orc eased himself into a chair by the fire, ignoring his fellow Blades, and dug his ring out of his wallet. He turned the thick gold band over in his hands, the dark red of the ruby seeming to flicker in the light of the fire. The armoured fist that clenched the mace was all too reminiscent of Gorgoth's own gauntlet in days gone by. The Orc grimaced. He hated what the ring stood for, yet he continued to keep it; it might one day be useful, and he wasn't the type to dispose of useful assets wastefully. Shaking his head, Gorgoth shoved it back into his wallet, which he managed to squeeze under his armour into his pocket after undoing one of his cuirass straps.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned his head fractionally. "You learnt anything more about me, Renault?" he asked. The Orc was interested as to how good the Blades' spying networks were.

"I know about the death of your mother," she told him, her voice soft, sympathy evident on her face. "I can't believe-" She stopped and recoiled as she realised that Gorgoth had swung out of his seat and was towering over her, his face a thundercloud.

"Do not go there, Renault," he growled, his voice deep and threatening. "That memory is one of my most painful." The Orc leaned forward, bringing his eyes closer to the Breton's. "I do not need reminding of it. Let's just say that I punished those responsible accordingly."

Surprisingly, the Blade Captain shook her head in disagreement. "No, Gorgoth, you didn't deal with the one who ordered her killed," she told him, not sounding shaken in the slightest. "He bears the ultimate responsibility-" She was cut off again by Gorgoth's growl, a deep, bass rumble that started deep down in his chest, the sound of an avalanche smashing down the mountainside. The great hall grew quiet as just about everyone turned to look at the Orc.

"He was not responsible for the way they did it," he whispered savagely. Looking up, he moved his gaze over the hall, glanced back at Renault, then grunted and stomped off quickly towards the East Barracks. It took a few seconds for conversations to begin again. Renault stayed still for a minute, swaying slightly, then shook herself and went off to find Lathar to consult him about usage of the training area.

By the time Gorgoth reached the East Barracks, he was back to his normal, calm, stoic self. While he refused to regret anything in life, he'd certainly preferred it if that incident hadn't happened. He'd come far too close to losing all sense and giving in to his rage, but that memory always threatened to break his emotional suppression. The Orc sighed and leaned against the wall, surveying the empty barracks. "You were right, Renault," he whispered. "One man still needs to pay." Gorgoth shook his head and left the building.

The Blades pressed into service as ostlers by Jauffre had done their work, and all the horses were ready, as were all of Gorgoth's companions. Conversation dried up as he entered, but all he did was walk over to Vorguz and check the stallion over. Satisfied, he turned to observe those who would most likely be fighting by his side; a flirtatious Bosmeri hunter, an ex-guardsman out for revenge, a depressed Argonian gladiator, an inexperienced half-elf battlemage, and an irritable old Imperial hermit. Without a shadow of a doubt, these were definitely the most diverse men and women he'd ever had under his command.

A jerk of his head had them leading their horses down the steps, following him. The gates swung open as they descended, and the sentries saluted. Finally, having assembled in the shadow of the fortress, Gorgoth hauled himself into Vorguz's saddle, motioning for his companions to do the same. "Short stops each night for rest," he told them. Aerin rolled her eyes and muttered something about the Orc being predictable. "Every hour the enemy has the Amulet is an hour that the magical barriers weaken. We ride hard." Gorgoth dug his heels into Vorguz's flanks, leading the party down the mountainside path, water spraying from under the hooves of the horses.

* * *

**A/N: Right, now that the plot continuation chapter is over, something can actually happen next chapter. Something like the Mythic Dawn having a very bad day. In any case, now that you've taken the time to read this, you can dedicate a few more minutes of your time to writing a review. It's not hard; it doesn't even have to be very long. I wrote this bloody thing, the least you can do is put some effort in to help make it better. Now click that link below this Author's Note, the one that says 'Review this Chapter'. Thanks in advance for your review.**


	18. Hunting

**A/N: Finished just in time for the 6 month anniversary of this thing. More on that in the ending Author's Note. Anyhow, 8 reviews for the last chapter is pretty good... but MORE ALWAYS HELP! Yes, I truly am relentless in wanting these reviews. Anyhow:**

**Underpaid Critic: Funny that you should mention that. I dreamed up one such scene where Gorgoth went to make some black soul gems alone and ran into Mannimarco... In any case, next chapter, the entire party will run into Mankar Camoran, who has crazy magical abilities, and let's just say he won't immediately retreat into Paradise. As for the Daedric Princes, they'll get attention when the party goes hunting for their artifacts (had a good laugh imagining Aerin doing Sanguine's quest, which MIGHT happen, but it's improbable).**

**Zombie chow (that is a GREAT name, btw): No, Gorgoth doesn't like Bretons. He'll respect even a half-breed if they prove themselves, but he is innately racist towards Bretons due to Orsinium's on-off semi-physical war with half of High Rock, though normally he suppresses any outward display of this. And this 'batch of pointless cooing and ramblings' isn't pointless at all: it's a review, and I like reviews. A lot.**

**Random Reader: Ingame, Berserk might be a spell, but that's because that's the only way they could feasibly implement it... in reality, it'd involve the Orc whipping himself up into a bloodthirsty frenzy, with no magic (or greater power) involved whatsoever. In any case, Gorgoth wouldn't ever let go of himself like that, because in the berserker rage he'd actually be WEAKER, as when you're berserk, you tend to forget about magic. And I'm still wondering about what'll happen when Saliith and Owyn meet again...**

**Jexus: Reviews are always helpful, so leave as many as you can. And, yes, a few spelling errors invariably seep through both MS Word's spellchecker and my manual checking, but hopefully they're not too numerous.**

**Commentaholic's Dad: Good to see that you've caught up, though regrettably you'll have to wait to see the entire group in action at any one time... hopefully, I can write that well enough.**

**Commentaholic: Kharz gra-Shagren died a truly horrible death, yes, one which might or might not be revealed in a flashback much later. And, yes, the Mythic Dawn won't know what hit them.**

**Now that was a LOT of review replies... keep up the reviewing, people, and for those of you who read and don't review... it's just a few minutes of your life. I wrote this stuff, now you write a review to help me improve, it's not hard.**

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen: Hunting**

Augusta Calidia, the owner of the upper-class Tiber Septim Hotel in the Talos Plaza District, had clearly never expected to host a group of rain-soaked adventurers who stomped around in mud-covered feet, irreversibly staining her fine carpets and generally intimidating the other guests. When the massive Orc walked up to her and requested two large rooms adjoining each other, the Imperial had nearly recoiled with surprise, but seeing as he was willing to pay a premium, she saw no reason not to give him and his companions what they wanted, so long as they behaved themselves and cleaned their feet. They hastily departed upstairs, thankfully refusing her tentative offer of lunch, leaving the lobby a lot worse-looking than it had when Augusta had opened the doors for business five hours earlier.

"So, big guy... remind me _exactly_ what we're doing here, paying _way_ more than we would for any normal inn?" Aerin was naturally curious; she hadn't thought of the warrior-shaman as someone who enjoyed luxury.

"The adjoining rooms make communication much easier, as well as making our position easier to defend," rumbled Gorgoth. "Besides, the beds are big; I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want to sleep on the floor. Clean your boots." Aerin rolled her eyes and ignored the fact that Gorgoth's own boots had accumulated far more mud than hers on the muddy roads into the City; a rainstorm had swept central Cyrodiil at a very inconvenient time. The Bosmer removed her sodden cloak and slung it over her shoulder, ignoring how it instantly created a trail of dampness along the undoubtedly very expensive carpet. Gorgoth shoved the key into the lock of the door to the first room, twisted it, opened the door, and entered.

The joint-biggest room in the Tiber Septim Hotel – apparently, the adjoining room was virtually identical – was well worth the extortionate prices. A sitting room held five chairs and a large sofa - all made from high-quality leather – surrounding a low, polished table, and the carpets were only slightly less extravagant than those downstairs. Two windows gave a magnificent view of the Talos Plaza, and would have let a comforting breeze waft through the room in the summer months. The walls were decorated with a handful of murals and tapestries, showing various battles and events in Cyrodiil's past. A large oak door led to the sitting room of the adjoining room, while another, slightly smaller door led to the bedroom. As most of the group removed their boots and generally started making a mess of the neatly ordered room, Gorgoth moved into the bedroom.

While slightly smaller than the sitting room, the bedroom was certainly spacious. A large area was occupied by the massive four-poster bed, which would easily have held Gorgoth's bulk if he'd intended to sleep in the bed. The walls were lined with wardrobes, cupboards, and small tables, while a single window let the Orc peer out into the rain that was hammering down at the magnificent dragon statue situated in the centre of the Talos Plaza. Gorgoth grunted and retreated to the sitting room.

After a brief check over the other room, Gorgoth told the others to settle in while he created a barrier around the two rooms; a modified Silence spell, it did not take much magicka to maintain and left Gorgoth reassured that no-one could listen in on their conversations, at least not without some form of magical aid that the warrior-shaman would detect within seconds. At their brief rest for the night on the journey down from Bruma, he'd taken Selene aside and taught her to perform the spell, forcing her to cast it several times before he was satisfied. She'd picked up relatively quickly, testament to her skill with handling magicka.

Gnaeus was peering into the bedroom. "If anyone seeks to deprive an old man of a much-needed bed, they'd better wise up quickly," he barked, turning to glare at everyone he could lay his eyes on. Aerin sniggered and motioned to Selene, and the only women present left and claimed the other room as their own. Gnaeus snorted. "If I have to share, I don't appreciate pondscum, greenskins, or bloody idiots who grow their hair long," he told them, looking sharply at everyone left in the room.

"That's all of us," pointed out Ilend. The Imperial was sprawled out on the sofa, cleaning the mud off his boots. The remainder of his armour was scattered over one of the chairs.

"Exactly!" growled Gnaeus, shaking his head and moving into the bedroom. "Don't wake me before dawn!"

"By the Hist, does he intend to take a sleep now?" asked Saliith, shaking his head in disbelief. He was sitting in an armchair, in a position similar to Ilend, wiping the off the mud that had collected in the crevasses of his webbed feet with a cloth. "I guess he needs sleep; what is he, eighty?"

"Seventy-eight, with good hearing!" shouted Gnaeus from the bedroom.

"So, Gorgoth, what's the next move?" asked Ilend, focusing on the task at hand; he understandably wanted to get to grips with the cult as quickly as possible. The swordsman had thrown his boots over to join the rest of his armour; the carpets were in a rapid state of decline already.

"I'll be going alone to meet whoever meets me at Luther Broad's Boarding house," explained Gorgoth. The Orc hadn't removed any part of his armour, and was merely sitting in an armchair, gazing blankly at the opposite wall, idly tapping a canine, deep in thought. "Once Selene gets back in here, I'll get her to cast the Silencing spell, then I'll leave. I'll report back before sunset."

"And what does that leave us ta do?" asked Aerin, sauntering back into the room and dropping into one of the armchairs, followed by Selene, who'd left her boots in the other room, leaving her long, slender legs completely bare. "While I'd love ta take Selene shopping for clothes, I'm pretty sure Ilend gets bored easily." The Imperial raised an eyebrow and muttered something about guard duty being the most boring job in existence, at least until a daedric invasion chose to land on one's doorstep.

In response, Gorgoth dug out his wallet and took out a small bag of coins, throwing them to Aerin, who caught them deftly. "While you're in the Market District, get some potions that will restore magical energies," he rumbled. "I do not have the apparatus or the ingredients required to make my own, and I suspect that they might be vital in future."

"Will do," nodded Aerin, stuffing the bag of coins into her pockets.

"Ilend, Saliith, one of you has to stay here to guard the place; I don't want to return to find an ambush, along with an old Imperial who has been murdered in his sleep." Gnaeus chose that moment to let rip with a loud snore. Gorgoth rose and dispelled his spell. "Selene, put up the magical wall of Silencing," he instructed. "Remember: I will do my best to be back by sunset; if I am delayed, I'll try to send a message." They all nodded. Gorgoth grunted in satisfaction and left.

The Orc had kept his cloak in his saddlebags and left them in the room. He had no need for a cloak on business; it would only impede his agility, and the Orc sensed a fight looming on the horizon. Gorgoth crossed the lobby quickly, ignoring the massive trail of mud left by him and his companions earlier, and walked out into the Talos Plaza. A guard wisely swallowed his salute to the Hero of Kvatch when Gorgoth glared at him, and gave directions to Luther Broad's Boarding house quickly and precisely. Within minutes, the warrior-shaman was walking up to the wooden door, casting a glance over his shoulder, and entering the boarding house.

Gorgoth cast his gaze over the large common room and had taken everything in before he had finished shutting the door behind him. There were a handful of patrons at the tables, mostly minding their own business or holding muted conversations. An Imperial that Gorgoth assumed to be Luther was wiping the bar clean. Two people were sat at the bar, drinking ale; a Nord that Gorgoth didn't recognise, and, further from the entrance, a Redguard whom he certainly recognised.

Baurus's outward appearance had somewhat changed from the sewers. His Blades armour was gone; he'd obviously needed to blend in, and so was wearing what any commoner could be seen wearing. The only clue to his identity was his Akaviri katana, and he'd had the sense to bind the hilt with string so that it wouldn't be as recognisable. Gorgoth took a seat next to the Blade, doing his best to look inconspicuous, which wasn't exactly one of his best skills; without the aid of his Illusion magic, he was about as inconspicuous as an ogre. Luther looked towards him, and Gorgoth grunted for a beer.

Upon noticing Gorgoth, the Redguard didn't waste time, and started talking in hushed, hurried whispers, his eyes never leaving his ale. "In a moment, I'm going to get up and go down into the basement." Baurus nodded towards a small door a few feet from where they were sitting. "That Breton sitting behind us will follow me. Wait for a few seconds, then follow me." Baurus paused as Luther brought Gorgoth his beer, which the Orc promptly started gulping down. "Luther knows something of the operation, so expect no trouble. Good luck." The Blade eased himself up from his bar stool, laid his tankard on the bar, and walked casually down to the basement. After a few seconds, Gorgoth sensed the Breton get up and follow the Redguard. The warrior-shaman got up, threw a septim down onto the bar beside his empty beer glass, and walked down to the basement, ducking under the low door.

The unmistakeable sound of a Conjuration spell sped the Orc's progress down the stairs, but he found that there was no need to hurry; when he reached the basement, the Breton was slumping forward, sparks dissipating around his body, the katana of Glenroy embedded in his back. The Imperial was garbed in a similar nondescript way to his fellow Blade, but that apparently had no adverse effect on their combat technique.

"It's good to see you again, Gorgoth," commented Baurus, smiling as he sheathed his katana. Glenroy grunted in greeting as he cleaned his katana, the hilt bound with string in a way similar to Baurus's, on the clothing of the dead Breton.

"Likewise, Baurus," replied Gorgoth. "Who was he?" The Orc nodded towards the fallen Breton, whose pockets were being turned out by Glenroy.

"An agent of the enemy who got wind of us," growled the Redguard, frowning down at the body. "Not a major player in their plans, but in death, he could be of use to us."

Baurus's assumption was proven correct when Glenroy straightened, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. In his hands he clasped a thick, hide-bound, well-made book. The title read 'Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes'. Baurus and Gorgoth looked over Glenroy's shoulder as the Imperial flicked through the pages. The words by Mankar Camoran seemed to be a religious rambling, or, at a long shot, a guide of some sort; none of the Blades could decipher a meaning from the often confused text. Glenroy growled in frustration and slammed it shut.

"What news from Cloud Ruler Temple?" asked Baurus. Clearly, he and Glenroy had been out of touch with the Blades since the start of their investigation in the City. As Gorgoth filled them in on the events that had taken place over the past few weeks, the Blades' smiles of relief at the safety of Martin turned to anxious frowns when they heard that the Amulet had been stolen. "This makes finding this Mythic Dawn cult a lot more important," observed Baurus, frowning down at the book that Gorgoth was now flicking through.

"This is Volume One, apparently," rumbled Gorgoth, tapping the cover of the book. "There may be more information in the other copies. There could be a coded message of some sort."

Glenroy snorted. "Good luck in finding one," he growled, aiming a kick at the dead Breton out of frustration.

Baurus was tapping his chin, in an absent-minded fashion; similar to Gorgoth's tapping of his prominent canines when the Orc was deep in thought. "You could try; we certainly don't have any better leads," he grunted. "Tar-Meena might be able to help out with that; she's an expert on Daedric cults and the like. She might be able to help you find out more; ask for her at the Arcane University."

"Where will I find you?" asked Gorgoth, stowing the book into a small bag hanging from his belt.

"I'm staying here; Glenroy is just across the street at the King and Queen Tavern," explained Baurus. "If you need to contact us, one of us is always at their respective tavern." The Redguard slammed his fist to his heart in a salute, a movement emulated by Glenroy. "We'll deal with the body. Good luck, brother."

Gorgoth returned the salute and grunted a farewell. He ascended from the basement and left the boarding house, ignoring the odd look given to him by a few patrons. The rain outside had stopped, but the black clouds still boiled overhead, threatening further storms. Gorgoth located a guard and obtained clears instructions on how to reach the Arcane University, which happened to be located on the opposite side of the city. Wasting no time, the Orc set a fast pace, reminding himself, as he did every few hours, that the magical barriers between Nirn and Oblivion were weakening by the second. Time, as ever, was precious; wasting time at this point could be defined as aiding the enemy.

Disregarding the thought of checking up on his companions in the Tiber Septim Hotel – it was many hours before sunset – Gorgoth was soon approaching the Arcane University, which was separated from the Imperial City proper by a bridge similar to the main bridge linking the City to the mainland. The gates swung open at his entry, leading him to believe that they were enchanted in some fashion. Purple-hued torches glimmered dimly around the edges of the stone-walled courtyard, and the doors were flanked by Legion Battlemages. Gorgoth walked across the courtyard, his boots ringing on the gigantic mural of a glowing eye in the centre, and entered the central building of the University, which apparently was the only section open to non-members of the Mage's Guild.

Mages of various ranks were roaming around the base of the tower, entering and leaving through several different doors leading to different parts of the University. All looked purposeful, and few gave Gorgoth a second glance; a strange Orc was apparently of no consequence when University business had to be done. The Orc looked around and located an Argonian seated on a bench against the stone wall of the tower, reading a book. Gorgoth walked over and cleared his throat, prompting her to look up.

"Are you Tar-Meena?" he asked. When she replied in the affirmative, he leaned forward slightly and tapped the hilt of his dai-katana, which protruded over his shoulder. "I'm here about the Mythic Dawn."

The Argonian mage's eyes lit up in recognition. "Ah, you must be the one I got the message about," she rasped, marking the page in her book and setting it down beside her. Gorgoth took one look at the bench and elected to remain standing; there was no possibility of it taking his weight, and he wasn't about to test it for magical reinforcement. "The Mythic Dawn, you say? One of the most secretive daedric cults. They worship Mehrunes Dagon, following the teachings of Mankar Camoran, their leader." The mage shuddered slightly, as though Camoran was a figure of revulsion. "Do you have any information of your own?"

Gorgoth removed the book taken from the dead Breton agent from his bag and showed it to her. "Ah, yes. _Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes_, by Mankar Camoran. The essential books for any of the Mythic Dawn."

"How can I find the Mythic Dawn?" grunted Gorgoth. He had no time to waste on small talk about the Mythic Dawn; he just needed to find them, and fast.

Tar-Meena thought for a few seconds, eyes searching the cover of Volume One. "It is obvious from the text that the _Commentaries_ come in four volumes," she concluded. "If you want to find them... well, I won't ask why, I've worked with the Blades in the past. I like keeping my nose out." The Argonian glanced at Gorgoth, who motioned for her to continue. "Ah, yes, the four volumes. I've only ever seen the first two." A grimace momentarily distorted the lizard's face. "However, I _think_ that there might be a way of deciphering a method of finding the Mythic Dawn's shrine to Mehrunes Dagon in his books." Gorgoth leaned forward, his interest undisguised. "I think, to prove yourself worthy of acceptance into their ranks, you have to find the shrine, for which you will need all four volumes." Tar-Meena rose, her tail twitching slightly. "Wait here; I'll get you the copy of Volume Two from the Mystic Archives."

Gorgoth watched her walk briskly out of another door and settled down to wait, leaning against the wall. If finding the Mythic Dawn meant finding all four volumes, and if the other two books were extremely rare... he'd find a way. The warrior-shaman had always found a way in the past, and this was no different. This time, however, a lot more was at stake. He sighed and folded his arms, waiting patiently for the return of Tar-Meena.

After several minutes, the Argonian finally reappeared, clutching a dusty purple book in her scaled hands. Gorgoth recognised it immediately, save for it's different title, it could have been the twin of the volume he was holding. "This is the library's copy of Volume Two," rasped Tar-Meena, holding it out to him. As the Orc's meaty hand closed around it, her eyes narrowed, and she growled a warning before releasing it: "Be careful with it." Gorgoth nodded.

"Where can I find the other two volumes?" he enquired, putting both books into his bag, which stretched at the seams.

"I've never seen them myself, but Phintias might know more. He runs the First Edition, just about the only bookstore in the City. He's very good with rare books." Tar-Meena blinked. "Will that be all?"

Gorgoth attached his back to his belt. "That's all," he confirmed, nodding in farewell before hurrying out of the University. Tar-Meena shrugged and sat down on the bench, returning to her book.

The warrior-shaman hurried through the City, barely pausing to get directions from a guard. Within ten minutes, he was striding into the Market District, using his strength and wide shoulders to effortlessly barge his way through the throng, ignoring indignant shoppers. The First Edition had a sign with a book depicted on it, displayed proudly above the door to the bookstore that had driven all others out of business. Phintias must have had considerable business acumen to pull off such a feat. Gorgoth swung open the door and strode in.

A middle-aged, well-dressed Redguard, whom Gorgoth assumed was Phintias, looked up and leaned on his desk, ready to serve this potential customer. The Orc paused to cast an eye over the impressive collection of books that the First Edition held; even the Palace Library in Orsinium had been lacking in certain areas, but here, wherever Gorgoth looked, there was a rare or valuable book of some kind. He nodded in appreciation and approached Phintias. As usual, he did not waste words.

"I need volumes three and four of the _Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes_, by Mankar Camoran," he explained. Phintias's face fell; Gorgoth had expected such a reaction, not daring to hope to find both rare books in one bookstore.

"I'm afraid to say you're out of luck, Orc," sighed Phintias, a frown creasing his face. "I have a copy of volume three, but it's reserved for a customer already. Gwinas has come all the way from Valenwood to get it, and he'd be disappointed, not to mention angry, if I didn't have it..." the Redguard spread his arms helplessly. "Sorry I can't help you."

Gorgoth frowned and tapped his canine. "When is Gwinas coming to pick up this book?" he asked.

"Actually, I was expecting him by now," muttered Phintias, looking out of the window. "He should be here very soon; if you want the book that badly, you could try talking to him, though I doubt he'll sell it." Gorgoth nodded and retreated to a chair to wait. To his pleasant surprise, it didn't creak or groan in any way. Clearly, Phintias provided good chairs for any customer, ranging from four-foot Bosmer midgets to massive Orcish warrior-shamans wearing heavy plate armour.

Gorgoth had barely got comfortable – as much as it was possible to get comfortable sitting in a hard chair wearing plate armour – when the door to the street swung open and a Bosmer entered the shop. He looked ridiculous in a fine red silk robe that seemed to accentuate his tiny stature; using Aerin as a comparison, Gorgoth estimated that Gwinas would only reach her shoulder, though she did seem to be tall for a Wood Elf. The robed Bosmer completely ignored Gorgoth and walked straight up to Phintias, his neck level with the high counter.

"Have you got it?" he demanded eagerly, impatiently tapping his foot as Phintias leaned down to retrieve a book from under the counter. "You cannot comprehend how long I've searched for this particular volume..." The Bosmer almost quivered with excitement as he snatched the purple book from Phintias. Gorgoth kept watching whilst pretending to read a manual of arms. "Thank, you, thank you so much!" chirped Gwinas, handing over a bag of coins, which Phintias proceeded to count. "I never thought I'd see the day... unfortunately, a rowdy bunch of adventurers have taken over the suite next to mine in the Tiber Septim Hotel." The Bosmer sniffed in disgust, whereas Gorgoth's eyebrow twitched. "They give me no peace... ah, well, at least I know a Silence spell that will keep out the worst of the noise... thank you once again." Phintias nodded to the Wood Elf, eager to get the annoying, robe-clad mer out of his shop.

After Gwinas had left, Gorgoth rose, replaced the manual of arms, and promptly walked out of the bookshop. The Bosmer's bright red robe was visible a mile off, carefully making its way through the throng. Gorgoth followed slowly; he knew exactly where the Bosmer was going, so there would be no danger if he lost sight of him. Gwinas himself did not seem to suspect that he was being followed, being completely focused on getting back to the hotel to read his precious book as quickly as possible.

Gorgoth's stomach told him that it would soon be time for dinner when they arrived back at the hotel. Before following Gwinas through the double doors, he surreptitiously cast a powerful Chameleon spell on himself. He caught the doors before they shut and eased himself through, hoping that the patrons inside put the door's odd behaviour down to the wind. Once inside, the warrior-shaman cast a temporary light-bending spell that meant no-one would be able to focus on the muddy footprints that his boots would inevitably leave. As an extra precaution, he Silenced his own footsteps before hurrying after Gwinas. While he did not look like it, Gorgoth suspected that he was one of the most masterful Illusionists in the known world, though he most often used Destruction and Restoration due to the nature of his 'work'.

The lobby of the hotel was nearly empty; most of the patrons were either in the dining area having dinner, upstairs in their rooms, or out in the City. Gorgoth followed Gwinas up the stairs, past the rooms that were occupied by the Orc's comrades, and paused as the Bosmer inserted the key into the lock, entered the room, and closed the door behind him. The warrior-shaman heard the lock click; clearly Gwinas did not want to be disturbed. Gorgoth let two minutes pass, then dispelled all his active magic, unlocked the door magically, and strode in, shutting the door behind him and cloaking the entire room with a Silencing barrier, letting no sound pass in or out.

Gwinas, reclining in an armchair that almost dwarfed him, looked up from his book, his look of annoyance turning to one of anger, then to one of fright as Gorgoth advanced rapidly across the room. Opening his mouth to inquire as to his presence, the Wood Elf seemed to have lost his voice by the time the Orc reached him. Ignoring the cowering Bosmer, Gorgoth swiped the book from his trembling hands and examined it. It was Volume Three, a fact that he'd never doubted, but it was always good to be sure.

"What are you doing?" squeaked Gwinas, finally finding his voice. "If you want gold, I have plenty of that, but please, that book..." he whimpered and trailed off and Gorgoth frowned down at him.

"What do you know about the Mythic Dawn?" he growled, leaning towards Gwinas.

The Bosmer plunged his hand into a deep pocket and drew out a crumpled note, handing it to Gorgoth. "They set up a meeting with me... on the note. I don't know anything else, now, please..."

Gorgoth gave the note a glance; it confirmed that a meeting with a certain Sponsor had been set up in the Sewers later that day. "I am a Blade," he rumbled. "I am investigating the Mythic Dawn. They are behind the assassination of the Emperor and his three sons. They were responsible for Kvatch." Gorgoth paused for dramatic effect. "Are you sure you wish to join them?"

Gwinas fainted.

Gorgoth didn't outstay his welcome. He took the book and the note, stuffed them into his bag, and left the room, dispelling his Silence spell. There was no doubt that Gwinas had no idea what he'd been getting into. When he came to, the wisest thing for him to do would be to pack and to flee back to Valenwood as quickly as possible. Gorgoth walked over to his shared rooms and barged through the doorway.

Ilend, who had been deep in discussion with Saliith, immediately leapt to his feet. "What did you find?" he demanded, managing to stop himself quivering with eagerness, apparently with great effort. Saliith was slower in rising to his feet, but there was still intensity in his gaze. Judging by the snores, Gnaeus was still asleep, and Aerin and Selene were not yet back from their shopping. Gorgoth got straight to the point.

"We have a good lead on the Mythic Dawn," he told them, pulling out the three volumes and Gwinas's note. "There may be a coded message in the _Commentaries_ somewhere about how to find their headquarters, their secret shrine." Gorgoth held up the note. "The fourth volume can be obtained in a meeting with someone calling themselves a Sponsor, later today. We need that fourth volume."

"Well, let's get on with it," growled Ilend, casting around for his sword belt.

"Calm yourself, Ilend," muttered Gorgoth. "I need a scalpel for this operation, not your broadsword of rage. Myself, Baurus, and Glenroy should be more than enough, but it's never a bad thing to have reserves." The Orc tapped his canine. "Saliith, wake Gnaeus. You two are coming with me."

The Argonian nodded and darted into the bedroom, while Ilend angrily kicked the sofa, clearly frustrated at not getting to grips with the Mythic Dawn. "Come on, Gorgoth," he snarled. "I know how to restrain myself; it's not like I'm a half-trained sociopath."

"I will not take the risk of you charging in and killing anyone wearing a red robe," replied Gorgoth, folding his arms and fixing the Imperial with a stony glare. "Besides, you will have to be here to prevent Aerin and Selene following us; I doubt that Selene will be any more satisfied with my decision than you are."

Ilend snorted. "Selene could do whatever she damn well wants, with or without my permission; it's a bit hard to restrain someone when they can fry you in two second flat." The guardsman seemed to have accepted Gorgoth's decision, however; he flopped back into the soft leather of an armchair. "I guess I could simply not tell them where you're going."

Saliith walked out the bedroom, followed by a very irritable Gnaeus. "I'm not young anymore, damn it," he barked, marching up to Gorgoth and poking the Orc in the chest. "I don't appreciate being woken up to go chasing after some upstart cult." Another poke. "And I _really_ don't appreciate being given orders by some greenskin unworthy of even being called an elf." Another poke.

"You will hurt your finger," remarked Gorgoth. "Get your sword. We leave as soon as possible."

Gnaeus seemed ready to explode into an apoplectic fit, but something dangerous lurking in Gorgoth's cold eyes seemed to encourage him to obey, and he set about strapping on his sword belt with his usual grumbling. Gorgoth set the books down on the table and tucked the note under his gauntlet. "When Selene gets back, see if you can help her to decipher whatever code is in these," he told Ilend, tapping the purple volumes. "She seems intelligent and fairly knowledgeable, but it might take a while without the fourth book. We'll be back as soon as possible." The surly swordsman grunted and waved Gorgoth away. Straightening, Gorgoth jerked his head towards the door and led Saliith and Gnaeus out of the room.

They reached Luther Broad's Boarding House without incident. Fortunately, Glenroy was in Baurus's room, apparently discussing some facet of their strategy. Both listened to Gorgoth's tale with undisguised eagerness, and once he'd finished and showed them the note, Baurus was quick to outline a plan of action. Gnaeus almost left when he heard that it involved walking through extensive sewer systems, but a hard, veiled look from Gorgoth sent him back to his seat on the bed. As there was no time to waste – the meeting was arranged to start within the hour – the group set of immediately, with Baurus, who had extensive knowledge of the Imperial City, both over and under the ground, in the lead.

As they descended into the sewers under the Elven Gardens District, Gorgoth was reminded of another time, not so long ago, that he'd used the Imperial sewers. Clearly, Baurus and Glenroy were also reminded of their failure to keep the Emperor alive; despite finally getting to grips with the enemy, they both seemed subdued. Gnaeus was even more vocal in his complaining than usual, whereas Saliith appeared to be quite at home with his surroundings; maybe the stench and the humid air reminded him of Black Marsh.

The only opposition on the way to the meeting consisted of large rats, a few mudcrabs, and a single goblin that looked hopelessly lost. Eventually, the group came to a barred door that led to a small room, curiously devoid of most of the slime that permeated the sewers. A small table, with a chair and candle, was incongruously placed at one end. Baurus smiled and turned to the others.

"This is the place," he confirmed. "Always did wonder who put that table there." His smile vanished as he got down to business. "There's an excellent place for you to spy on the meeting," he explained, nodding towards some slimy stairs to their left. "When I'm in there, talking to the Sponsor, watch my back, and watch his; we don't want this bastard escaping with the fourth book."

"He won't get away, Baurus," reassured Glenroy. The Imperial had taken the time to retrieve a short bow from his room, and he had an arrow nocked.

"Good to hear it," replied the Redguard. He gave a last salute and walked fearlessly into the room. Glenroy motioned with his head towards the stairs and started to lead the way up, but Gorgoth stopped him. A burst of green illusion magic spread forth from the Orc's upraised hand, covering the party with light-bending Illusion magic that would render them completely invisible.

"Hold your fire until you're sure you'll hit," Gorgoth told Glenroy. "This spell lasts only as long as you remain inconspicuous." Glenroy nodded and continued up the stairs. Saliith followed, then Gnaeus, with Gorgoth bringing up the rear, using a detect life spell to make sure he didn't collide with the others.

Baurus was right; the ledge over the adjoining room provided a perfect view over every square inch of the room below. Glenroy hissed a reassurance to the Redguard, who had looked slightly confused to hear footsteps on the ledge but see nothing. Gorgoth noted another gate leading to the ledge on the opposite side of the room, and settled down to watch it; the others could cover the meeting well enough. The waiting began.

Gorgoth was the first to notice movement; his detect life spell showed him numerous glowing silhouettes through the walls of the sewer. One detached itself from the main group, while two more appeared to be heading up some stairs, the remainder of the group staying put. Gorgoth realised that the two agents would be approaching them from across the ledge, and whispered a warning to his comrades, placing himself between them and the opposite door, exactly halfway across the ledge. Down below, the door swung open.

The Sponsor strode into the room, ignoring the grime staining his fine sandals. His face was hidden in the depths of his red cowl, but Gorgoth could tell from his height and build that he was an Altmer. He carried no weapon, but he needed none; the Blades knew all too well of the Conjuration abilities of the Mythic Dawn. The Sponsor strode languidly up to Baurus and began addressing him in a muted tone, too low for Gorgoth to pick up more than the occasional unintelligible word. While keeping half an ear and most of an eye on the conversation down below, Gorgoth was also watching the approaching two life signatures intently. They were on the same level as the hidden watchers, and approaching fast.

As the two agents appeared at the door and opened it, Gorgoth straightened and started walking very quietly towards them. A shout from below indicated that Baurus's identity had been revealed, but Gorgoth was confident that his comrades could handle whatever situation was developing. Shedding his invisibility, he drew his mace, running forwards at full speed towards the two bewildered agents.

They recovered from their initial shock, but too slowly. Just as the first one was raising his arm to conjure arms and armour, Gorgoth's mace crashed down upon his chest, compressing it beyond recognition, making a mangled mess of his ribcage and tearing his hot heart to pieces. The other cultist stepped back and successfully called forth his armour and mace. Gorgoth pushed the first agent's body off the ledge and stepped forward, kicking aside the cultist's attempted swing and jabbing his mace head-first into the Imperial's throat. The armour warped and buckled under the sheer pressure, and cartilage snapped as the cultist's windpipe, along with most of his throat, was utterly destroyed. Gorgoth swept the body off the ledge and looked down to the battle below.

The Sponsor, clutching a massive claymore, had an arrow jutting out of his shoulder blades and had been backed into a corner by Baurus and Gnaeus, his frantic defence barely keeping their flickering blades at bay. Saliith prowled behind the two swordsmen, making sure any escape attempt would be futile. Glenroy remained on the ledge with Gorgoth, arrow nocked, ready to take a shot if he saw an opening.

Shouts and the pounding of armoured feet on stone paving slabs snapped Gorgoth's head around to the right; his detect life spell showed multiple life signatures approaching rapidly from the tunnel that the Sponsor had came through. "Incoming, about seven, eight!" he bellowed as a warning to the others. Glenroy shifted his focus to the door, and Saliith took up a position just beside it, ready to pounce on the first agent through. Gorgoth jumped down to stand on the other side. A quick glance at the ongoing battle showed little change; the Sponsor was unable to do anything except defend, but Baurus and Gnaeus were finding an opening difficult to find.

The first armoured cultist through the door promptly fell with Glenroy's arrow in his throat. The second through fell on top of him with Saliith's throwing knife embedded in the base of his skull. Gorgoth grabbed the third with one hand, threw him to the ground with stunning force, and kicked his head in. The next two attempted to get in at once; Saliith smoothly impaled one in the stomach, and the other one barely made it into the room before Gorgoth parried his swing and shoved him into the wall, summoning a bound blade in his left hand. Before the cultist could even start to recover, Gorgoth had forced the daedric steel into his chest until it found the Altmer's heart. Dispelling the blade, Gorgoth turned to find Saliith emerging from the passageway; apparently, the seventh and final cultist had tried to flee, but hadn't got far.

A death rattle sounding in his throat, the Sponsor was slowly sliding down the wall, a deep slash running down most of his chest. Unintelligible words escaped his lips before he succumbed to death and was briefly surrounded by multitudes of shimmering sparks. Baurus rammed his cleaned katana into its scabbard irritably. "By the Divines, that bugger was hard to break down," he growled. Gnaeus grunted in apparent agreement, holding his ebony broadsword up to his eyes to examine for any stains.

"We're clear," rumbled Gorgoth, scanning the sewers for any other signs of life. Apart from a handful of rats and mudcrabs on the edge of his vision, they were the only living souls within earshot. "There's no more to kill. Has he got the book?"

"Yes, he has," replied Baurus triumphantly, removing a purple volume from the depths of the Sponsor's bloody robes. Gorgoth took it from him and quickly flipped through the pages, confirming that it was the fourth volume. The crazed ramblings were much the same, but Gorgoth suspected that this volume held the final piece of the puzzle. "Well, the initiative is with you now, Gorgoth," reported Baurus, bringing the Orc's eyes up. "Me and Glenroy are going up to Cloud Ruler to protect the new Emperor, hopefully better than we protected the old one." Both Blades grimaced as they were once again reminded of their failure. "See you there after you get the Amulet back," continued Baurus in farewell. He and Glenroy straightened and slapped fists to hearts in a stiff salute, which Gorgoth returned. Within seconds the Blades were melting away into the shadows, going down the tunnels that the Mythic Dawn had appeared from.

"That was more of a slaughter than a battle," snorted Gnaeus, poking the pile of corpses near the door with his foot. "In the Iliac Bay, back in my day, this'd be called a glorified pub brawl." The Imperial harrumphed loudly enough for it to echo.

"In Orsinium, this wouldn't even be called a pub brawl," retorted Gorgoth. "Whatever it was, it might well be the beginning of the end for these damned cultists." The warrior-shaman shoved the book into his bag. "Come on. The sooner we get back and figure out this hidden message, the better." He motioned for them to follow him and started back down the passage that they had emerged from.

By the time they arrived back at the hotel, the sun had set and Gnaeus's stomach was grumbling almost as loudly as the Imperial himself. Once inside, he made straight for the dining area and didn't look back. Gorgoth and Saliith went up to the room, ignoring the murderous looks Augusta shot at them as they embedded yet more mud into her fine carpets. The group was likely costing her a fortune, but Gorgoth simply couldn't care less; it was important business, and that excused some expenses. Approaching their room, Gorgoth could sense the Silencing magic in place and nodded slightly to himself.

Gorgoth threw open the door and strode in, closely followed by Saliith, who closed the door behind him. Ilend's head whipped around, and he immediately strode from where he had been standing by the window over to Gorgoth, looking him up and down sharply. "Did you get it?" he asked, making no effort to hide his eagerness. His chainmail was lying in a heap in the corner of the room, and he was clad in nondescript clothing that would be seen on any street in central Cyrodiil.

As an answer, Gorgoth removed the fourth volume of the _Commentaries_ from the bag on his belt. Ilend hastily snatched it from his grasp and threw it to Selene, who was lying on the sofa, the other three volumes arranged around her, all of them open. Numerous sheets of paper with scrawling littered the floor, and a look of frustration was evident on the half-elf's face. The dark green dress she was wearing was as nondescript as Ilend's generic clothing; apparently, she and Aerin had little money to spare.

"Did you get my potions?" asked Gorgoth, moving over and sitting down in an armchair, which sagged under his weight.

"Got em," replied Aerin, who was sitting, still in her 'armour', with her bare feet up on the table Presumably, her boiled leathers were just as comfortable as normal clothing. "Five of em." The Bosmer motioned towards the five small vials of clear liquid sitting in the centre of the table. "And, before ya ask, Selene hasn't worked out the code yet. Time and silence is what she needs, apparently,"

Gorgoth leaned forward and grabbed three of the potions, attaching them to his belt. All three wouldn't fully restore his vast magicka reserves, but they would certainly give him enough to wreak considerable havoc. "What have you figured out so far?" he asked Selene.

The half-elf irritably threw her quill onto the table and screwed up yet another piece of parchment. "Well, I can say I know several ways of _not_ finding the message," she sighed, tucking a few stray strands of blonde hair back behind her slightly pointed ear. "But as for actually finding it... nothing yet." She groaned and rubbed her eyes. "It's just insane ramblings. Camoran sounds like a madman."

Gorgoth stood, reached over and picked up the bulky volumes. "I'll see what I can find," he told her. "Take a break and refresh your mind. Selene gave him a grateful smile and wriggled into a more comfortable position, closing her tired eyes.

"Were they seriously that bloody helpless?" asked Ilend incredulously, having obtained a rundown of the battle from Saliith. "Green arse-kissers fresh from basic training would do better than those jumped-up rambling priests." The Imperial snorted and flopped back down into an armchair. "How the fuck did Kvatch fall to those idiots?"

"I think the massive army of Daedra had something ta do with it," muttered Aerin sardonically. "Still, at least this makes it easier for you ta tear through their ranks when we find their not-so-secret base."

"The more I kill, the better," growled Ilend, a predatory gleam appearing in his eyes as he reached for the hilt of his sword to caress it, before realising that his sword belt was lying on top of his chainmail. Saliith was slowly removing his scale armour, revealing a filthy, sweat-stained tunic, the sole purpose of which was to stop his armour chafing against his scales.

"Save some for me," cut in Selene, her eyes momentarily opening and flashing with anger before sliding shut again. "I hold the Mythic Dawn indirectly responsible for the deaths of almost everyone I've ever known." She sighed shakily.

"This is odd," muttered Gorgoth, tapping a canine. "The first word in every paragraph is massive in comparison with the others. In most books, it's normally the first letter of the chapter." The Orc began running his thick finger down the page, reading each starting letter of a paragraph, and froze.

"Parchment, quill," he barked at no-one in particular. Aerin darted forward and shoved a mostly clean piece of parchment into his hands, quickly followed by Selene's discarded quill and an inkpot. The Orc immediately began scribbling down characters as he scanned each of the volumes. Within seconds, he was finished, holding out the parchment. All of them moved closer to read what he'd written.

"Uh... _what_ exactly does that say?" asked Aerin, screwing up her eyes in a futile attempt to make sense of the unintelligible scrawl. Gorgoth snorted and turned the parchment so he could see it.

"That is a result of being illiterate for the first eleven years of my life," he rumbled. "It says: Green Emperor Way where tower touches midday sun."

"Green Emperor Way? That's the section of the City where the palace is," muttered Ilend, scratching his chin. "The tower must refer to White Gold Tower, and the touching of the sun at midday..."

"It probably has something to do with the tower's shadow," mused Gorgoth. "Either way, we have about fifteen hours until we find out exactly what it means."

"In that case, I'm grabbing dinner," announced Saliith, striding rapidly out of the door. Gorgoth leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

"We are very close," he sighed, his voice low, speaking almost to himself. "Do not lose focus." His eyes snapped open. "And if some food could be brought up here, that would be good. I'm not about to sit in a dining area full of bigots and lordlings." The Orc sighed again and rose to his feet, slowly beginning to strip his armour off. Aerin got up, offering to help, but he waved her away. "Compared with my old battle armour, this suit is easy to take off," he rumbled. "It's only got a single layer, for a start, and the construction is simple."

"How do you _move_?" asked Aerin rhetorically, returning to her seat, lying back, and splaying her legs out across the table. "If you ask me, fighting in a tin suit is just counter-productive. You're easier ta hit."

Gorgoth grunted. "You weren't there when I saw the look on his face."

"Who? Whose face? Where?" Aerin arched an eyebrow as she looked over at the completely relaxed Orc.

"The face of the Breton knight when, in the heat of battle, fighting on horseback, he realised that his sword was just bouncing off my armour no matter what he did." Gorgoth leaned forward, and Aerin looked into his eyes, noting for the first time just how cold and emotionless they really were. She felt a slight chill, and shivered. "Aerin, I don't _have_ to move quickly. I block, or parry, or do whatever needs doing. Why do you think people feared and reviled Orcs for so long?" The Bosmer tried to come up with a reason, but realised that she had no reason for the millennia of discrimination. "Because we are better than them. We are Malacath's chosen. We are the strongest race on Nirn, and they hate us for it." Gorgoth finished removing his armour, sat back down, and leaned back in his chair, a grim look on his face, staring at nothing.

"Gnaeus might find that ideology a little hard to accept," muttered Selene, who also looked relaxed, with her arms behind her head, her eyes closed. "Orsinium hadn't even been founded for the second time when he left the mainland. He's still got a lot to catch up on."

"You don't say," muttered Ilend, walking back into the room. The Imperial was carrying an assorted handful of fruit, which he handed to Gorgoth somewhat apologetically. "It's all I could get without bringing up a plate," he explained. Gorgoth nodded in thanks and stuffed most of an apple into his massive mouth, his strong teeth ruthlessly grinding down into it.

"Well, seeing as everyone's occupied, I'm getting this armour off," announced Aerin, swinging to her feet and swaying her way over to the door to the room shared by her and Selene. Ilend sniggered and rolled his eyes.

"Why do you keep insisting on calling that armour, Aerin?" he asked, scratching his nose as he tried to hide a massive smirk. "It's a bloody catsuit. Probably a throwback to your dancing girl days. Not all that good at keeping things out of you, but very good at getting a specific object _in_ you." The Imperial winked. Aerin growled something unintelligible and hurried into her room, hoping that none of them would detect the flush spreading over her face. Ilend's guffawing indicated that he had.

"How did she ever survive in Oblivion with that setup?" asked Selene, genuinely interested.

"Mostly, she killed Daedra before they even got close," replied Ilend, shrugging his shoulders and flopping down in Aerin's vacated armchair, putting his bare feet up on the table and crossing them. Selene wrinkled her nose slightly at the smell, but made no comment. "She was wise enough to let Gorgoth, me, and Menien do the hand-to-hand stuff. Besides, Gorgoth's got a pretty powerful universal protection spell on him. Protected all of us well enough."

Before Selene could reply, the door flew open, smashing into the doorstop with enough force to make the entire door shudder. Ilend's instincts kicked in, and he was on his feet within a second, grasping for a sword that wasn't there. He need not have worried; Gnaeus gave him a single glance, harrumphed, closed the door, and walked straight into the bedroom. Pausing, he turned and addressed the room in general: "If you plan to open this door before dawn, then you'd better have your armour on and your weapons drawn," he told them. Nodding once to make sure they understood, he strode in and slammed the door.

"Remind me why he's so grouchy?" asked Ilend.

"He barely came out of his shack for thirty-five years, Ilend," sighed Selene. "He's not that much of a people person."

"Understatement of the century..."

Gorgoth rose to his feet, his head brushing the ceiling. His hulking presence almost made the room feel smaller. "Selene, go and get some sleep. Tell Aerin the same thing. We rise early tomorrow, and we're pushing hard." The half-elf nodded and headed off to her room. Gorgoth moved to the windows and jammed them shut, using physical means, then magical means as an extra precaution. "Selene already trapped the door to the hallway from their room," he explained to Ilend. "Means the only point of entry is this door. See what I mean about ease of defence?"

The Imperial gave him a blank look. "Sometimes, I think you're paranoid, and at other times, you make real sense," he sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. "I guess you were right in Skingrad; I'd never have thought of sleeper agents. The same could be true here."

Gorgoth nodded. "My point exactly," he rumbled.

Saliith chose that moment to walk in, looking more content than he had done for the past few days. "They have good food here," he announced, before flopping down in a chair and making himself comfortable.

"I'm surprised they didn't throw you out, with you in those rags," observed Ilend, gesturing at Saliith's ragged tunic. Behind him, Gorgoth started setting magical traps around the door.

"I brought my blades," shrugged the gladiator. "I doubt any of the bouncers had the skill to fuck with me. I have a reputation, it seems."

"Used well, reputations are very useful," remarked Gorgoth, finishing up with his trapping. "A Breton prisoner once broke within five minutes when he heard that it was going to be me torturing him." The Orc shook his head and walked over to the window, gazing out at the twilight.

Saliith looked towards the bedroom door, obviously wondering about getting some sleep, but Gnaeus's snoring dissuaded him. "I guess we'd better get some rack time," he observed, stretching out in his armchair and sliding his eyelids shut. "Best to be well-rested on the eve of a battle."

"Spoken like a true veteran," replied Gorgoth, easing himself down onto the sofa. "We should all get some rest while we can. I do not know how much we'll be getting over the coming days." The warrior-shaman used magic to extinguish the lamps, plunging them into darkness, the only light coming from the light of torches from the city reaching the window. "Sleep deeply. Do not be troubled by dreams. May you live to see the morning."

* * *

Sharing a bed was something new in Selene's experience; on Whiterock, her family's shack had been big enough for them to each have a separate space for their own bed, and the winters had never got too cold. This time, there was only one bed, and as it was a large one, Aerin was insisting that neither of them should sleep uncomfortably. The result was both sides of the bed being occupied by a woman who was trying to ignore the other's breathing. Aerin rolled over and let out a tiny snore. Selene sighed and buried her face in her pillow.

Unbidden thoughts entered her head as the peace of the night enveloped her. Ever since Whiterock, she'd managed to keep the memories and the devastation securely under control during the day. In the privacy of the nights, she'd allowed herself to let go as much as she dared, and this night was apparently no different. She snarled inwardly as memories of her lost family filled her eyes. _Not now, damn it_, she thought desperately, squeezing her eyes shut in a futile attempt to block out the flashbacks. Her father, her mother, her brother, all dead, suffering horrendous fates at the hands of the Daedric minions of Oblivion... despite her best efforts, Selene let out a muted sob, praying to whatever Divine that would listen, hoping that Aerin wouldn't hear it.

Apparently, the Divines slept. "You okay, Selene?" asked Aerin, eyes sliding open, full of concern as she looked over at the half-elf.

"I'm fine," mumbled Selene, speaking into her pillow. Any mer with eyes could tell that she was lying.

Aerin leaned over and grasped the older woman's shaking shoulder. "Selene, I have no idea how bad it is, but you're alive, right? And that means ya can get revenge... right?" While it seemed odd for a teenager to be offering advice to a powerful half-Altmer battlemage, it had become clear that Selene had yet to catch up on at least a decade's worth of life lessons. "Hey, don't hold it in; I know I'd be a shivering wreck if my dad died. No point in denying there's something wrong if your world's coming apart." Selene said nothing, merely letting the tears flow. Aerin, somewhat awkwardly, wriggled closer to the half-elf and put her arms around her.

* * *

Gorgoth, looking out of the window, could see the very edge of the sun starting to peek over the horizon. That was good enough for him. He moved over to the bedroom door and kicked it open. "Wake up, Magnus. It's dawn." Motioning for Ilend, who'd been awake for ten minutes, to go next door and wake the others, Gorgoth continued into the bedroom and prodded Gnaeus hard in the ribs.

The old Imperial moved fast, but not fast enough; in the act of drawing his broadsword from the scabbard kept under his pillow, Gnaeus found his sword arm held in a vice-like grip by the huge Orc towering over him. "It's still dark," spat the aged hermit.

"Look out of the window," snorted Gorgoth, releasing the Imperial's arm and backing out of the bedroom, leaving the door open.

Ilend took one step into the women's room and stopped, leaning on the doorframe, one leg crossed over the other, a sardonic smirk spreading over his features. "Am I interrupting anything?" he asked in a loud voice.

Aerin promptly sprang away from Selene, whose head had been resting on the Bosmer's chest, and in doing so almost fell out of the other side of the bed. She directed a venomous glare towards the Imperial, who was too busy clutching his sides, shaking with laughter, to notice. "If you haven't got anything constructive ta add, guardsman, get out and leave us alone," she snarled, putting as much malice into her voice as possible.

"Gorgoth wants you up and ready," Ilend told them before acquiescing and leaving the room, still chuckling to himself. Aerin shook her head and muttered something under her breath about men. Selene was wearing a slightly bemused expression.

"We're leaving soon, and not coming back, unless you want Augusta to attack us with a broom," Gorgoth was saying as he buckled on parts of his plate armour. "That gives us plenty of time for breakfast and a discussion of how best to attack the Mythic Dawn when we find their headquarters."

"Kick down the door and give the bastards what they deserve?" asked Ilend, picking up his sword belt.

"Maybe," growled Gorgoth. "Either way, I doubt it's going to be easy; there'll be at least a hundred of them, maybe more. Possibly even a small army. If they have enough powerful mages, it could be a challenge."

"That's what you and Selene are for," snorted Saliith dismissively. The Argonian had already slipped effortlessly into his scale armour and was sharpening one of his shortswords. "Besides, apparently, you were good at this kind of small-scale engagements, from what you've told us. Hope your tactics work."

"I learnt from the best," rumbled Gorgoth. "My father is an excellent general, one of his few virtues. It was an honour to serve under him." The Orc moved over to the door and started to undo the traps.

Within the hour, the party had departed from the Tiber Septim Hotel, leaving several ruined, mud-splattered carpets and a very angry hostess behind them, and were eating breakfast in the Feed Bag. Delos had been delighted to see that a high-consumption customer such as Gorgoth had brought him extra revenue, and set them up with the largest table in the place, which also happened to be the furthest from the door. Gnaeus had snorted and wrinkled his nose at what he claimed was 'substandard, ill-cooked food' but soon started eating when Gorgoth said he might not eat anything else until the next day.

After consuming a massive breakfast and discussing tactics, under the assumption that the Mythic Dawn was headquartered in a cave of some sort, the group eventually made their way to Green Emperor Way, under the shadow of White Gold Tower. The weather, thankfully, had cleared slightly, and clouds were scattered and insubstantial. Gorgoth, squinting up at the sun, ascertained that it was almost noon and told them to split up until they found what they were looking for, using the shadow of the tower as guidance. Without much idea of exactly what they were looking for, it took a while to find.

Gorgoth eventually located what seemed to be a glowing red map of Cyrodiil on the side of a tomb and called the others over. "I think we've found what we're looking for," he rumbled, a hint of satisfaction evident in his deep voice. "Look at our map and see if you can locate that position." The warrior-shaman pointed to a glowing red dot, located somewhere north of where Cheydinhal would be, marked by a rising sun.

"How long before we get there, do you reckon?" asked Ilend, leaning over Aerin's shoulder as she scanned the eastern reaches of Cyrodiil with her finger.

"It looks like it's around the Lake Arrius region," muttered Aerin, tongue clasped between her teeth as she made a mark of the probable location of the Mythic Dawn headquarters. "It's half a day's ride north of Cheydinhal, no roads there."

"Three days," grunted Gorgoth. "Let us waste no time. The Amulet of Kings beckons."

* * *

**A/N: Well, it's been six months since this fanfic was first posted, and it seems to have grown far beyond my original intentions, and definitely for the better - massive thanks to regular reviewers, who know exactly who they are. Oh, and reviews do always help. Go on, click the link just below this author's note. Who knows, you might spur me on to write the next chapter quicker (not to mention helping me improve it).**


	19. False Dawn

**A/N: You might have noticed that this is a ridiculously fast update period for me - it's been less than a week since my last update. It's an example of what happens when I finally pull my finger out and get down to some serious writing every night. Also, this chapter is shorter than normal at just over 8,000 words, but, then, as I always say, a chapter ends when it ends. Thanks to all who reviewed.**

**Commentaholic: I headbutted a wall when that unforgivable typo was pointed out. It's since been changed. Also, congratulations on grabbing the milestone of the 100th review. Roll on, 200...  
**

**ZWig: I suspect it's differences in the way we talk; Aerin could well have left the 'remind me' off, but it's her way of reminding Gorgoth that he hasn't explained what they're doing there.**

**Random Reader: I've taken a quick look over that site, and it definitely looks like a valauble resource, thanks for that. And I always did wonder why the Blades changed so much from Morrowind to Oblivion, so I've taken a few steps to combine them (e.g Renault's spy network that gets her info on Gorgoth's past). As for the Redguard swordsman/rogue... well, he's not much of a rogue, but, you're right: Gorgoth will meet his Redguard scar-giver later.**

**Anonymous Reviewer (honestly, couldn't you think up a more unique name?): I CTRL+F'd Chapter 18 and found no your/you're errors. I don't doubt that I've made some in the past, but it be a lot more helpful if you put that review on a chapter where I'd actually made those mistakes.**

**Well, that's that. As usual, I'll insert my comment about always wanting more reviews here. They can only help me, people. For now, read on.  
**

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen: False Dawn**

Using the shortcut of riding over Lake Rumare on magically-aided horses, the group reached Cheydinhal shortly after nightfall two days after learning the location of the Mythic Dawn hideout. Gorgoth refused to enter the city, instead setting up camp north of the walls, far from any road, in order to reach the Mythic Dawn's caverns before midday tomorrow. The Orc had set a murderous pace, and both the horses and the people riding them were eager for any rest.

"I'll keep watch for four hours, then wake the rest of you just before dawn," rumbled Gorgoth, sitting down with his back resting against a tree as the rudimentary camp took shape. The only one who complained was Gnaeus; the others were either too tired to complain, or disciplined enough not to. Apart from Ilend, who chopped wood to make a small fire, the sole action taken by the rest of the party was to roll out a bedroll and crawl under their blankets. The last of their food would be eaten next morning, in the saddle.

The Orc twitched an eyebrow when Ilend slid down beside him, his back against the same tree. "I've been practising my magic like you told me," muttered the Imperial. He looked tired, but ready for action; he had clearly received good training in the Legion. "I think I can cast about three fireballs before running out of magicka, but what I really want to work on is my detect life spell." Ilend sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You say that I can cast once, and it stays for a duration, rather than maintaining it, which is more expensive?"

"The duration version is more common," replied Gorgoth. "It's cheaper and more cost-effective. I prefer the maintenance version myself; it's more reliable and magicka drainage isn't so much of an issue with me." The warrior-shaman turned his head to study the ex-guardsman. "With the duration spell, you could probably get a thirty-second effect, at the instant cost of most of your reserves."

Ilend was nodding. "I can live with that," he grunted. "I'd prefer it to be fire-and-forget. You got time to teach me?"

Gorgoth consented. The training didn't take long, as Ilend already knew a different version of the basic spell, and within minutes he was gently snoring, splayed out across his bedroll in full armour. Gorgoth settled back for another long night shift, casting a detect life spell and folding his arms. The previous night, he'd instructed Ilend and Saliith to share the guard duty, knowing that he could go into battle without a diminished performance without sleep the preceding night, whereas they would almost certainly be affected. Sleep was tempting, with a hard day's ride behind him and the tranquillity of the forest calming the atmosphere, but the Orc found that temptation easy to resist. He'd seen the results of drowsy sentries, and he didn't want it to happen to him.

The edge of the horizon was barely turning grey when Gorgoth got up and moved among the bedrolls, shaking and gently kicking their inhabitants awake. When the Orc poked Gnaeus in the ribs with his foot, the Imperial responded by whipping his broadsword out of its scabbard and swinging at Gorgoth's offending leg, but the swing was weak, and Gorgoth smoothly stepped back out of range, moving on to shake Saliith awake. Gnaeus snarled in annoyance and reluctantly dragged himself to his feet, sheathing his ebony blade.

After reducing their fatigue by washing in a nearby stream, the group mounted and started making their way through the wilderness north of Cheydinhal, eating breakfast while on the move. The lack of any roads and the untamed terrain meant that progress was slow by Gorgoth standards, but they had little inclination to talk; thoughts of the coming battle or lethargy resulting from the early rising stilled their tongues.

Lake Arrius was surrounded by gently rolling hills and open woodland, with a handful of rocky ridges dotting the landscape. According to the guidance map on the tomb back in the Imperial City, the entrance to the Mythic Dawn hideout was very close to the lake, perhaps on the very edge of it. A search was rendered unnecessary by the eagle-eyed Aerin spotted a path worn down by many footprints. Following that path, they came upon what looked like the entrance to a cave. Gorgoth's suspicions were confirmed when a powerful detect life spell revealed hundreds of life signatures below the surface of the ground. They had found the Mythic Dawn, and, by extension, the Amulet of Kings. The hunt was over: now, the vengeance began.

Gorgoth drew the party away to a safe distance and tied the horses loosely but securely to a grove of trees. Silence reigned as each of them checked over their weapons and armour, readying their minds for the trials to come. Gorgoth had reported there being at least a hundred cultists down in the caverns, which was both a source of uneasiness and grim satisfaction; they were vastly outnumbered, but, then, it was all the more for them to kill.

"If Mankar Camoran is there, leave him to me," rumbled Gorgoth, breaking the silence. "He is one of the most powerful spellcasters on all of Nirn, but I should be able to distract him for long enough for the rest of you to get the Amulet safe." The warrior-shaman drew his mace and started off down the path, motioning for the others to follow him. With the rasping of blades leaving their scabbards, they closed in on the Lake Arrius caverns.

"Selene, how good is your Illusion?" asked Gorgoth, beckoning to the battlemage to walk with him.

"How good does it have to be?" inquired Selene, her glaive slung over her right shoulder, the tip of the blade almost brushing Saliith's scales before the Argonian stepped back.

"Can you cast a powerful Chameleon spell on yourself and Aerin, while also Silencing your footsteps? It looks like stealth is going to be important, until we reach the Amulet."

Selene nodded. "I can do that."

"Good. I'll take care of the rest, and cast detect life over all of us so we can see each other. Dispel your magic when I do." Gorgoth patted the three potions at his belt to make sure they were still there, and walked up to the rickety wooden door that led to the entrance. He slowly turned and cast his gaze over the five companions that he had come to know as comrades. "It is unlikely that all of us will make it out alive," he told them, his face grim. "The odds are long. We are outnumbered. If any of you do not wish to face what is beyond that door, leave now." No-one so much as twitched. They all wore determined expressions. "On this day, I am proud to call you comrades," finished Gorgoth, nodding to Selene. The half-elf and Aerin disappeared under veils of Illusion magic. Gorgoth cast the same spell for the uncloaked remainder, Silencing their footsteps at the same time. Detect life spells came next, and finally he moved among them, casting a long-lasting cocktail of protective spells. Draining one of his potions, he threw the bottle to the hard ground and opened the door, moving into the unknown.

For those who had never experienced it, it was slightly surreal to find themselves moving in a group, not being able to hear each other's footsteps, not being able to see anyone except as a shimmering pink glow. The only sound in the moss-encrusted, wide cavern was one of quiet, tense breathing. A single red-robed agent was sitting on a chair, looking bored with the sheer monotony of sitting in the entrance to a cave all day with no distractions.

Gorgoth wasted no time. He walked up to the Imperial and snapped his neck. Taking a key from a string tied around the dead cultist's neck, he unlocked the only door in the cavern, leading the way through. A Dunmer up ahead, standing in the narrow passageway, frowned at the door apparently opening by itself. He narrowed his eyes, and evidently either cast a detect life spell, or noticed a certain shimmering in the air caused by even the best chameleon spells. The Dark Elf's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to yell for help, but Gorgoth pre-empted him by smashing his mace into it. With half his jaw ripped off and his tongue torn to pieces, the Dunmer staggered back, attempting to heal himself, but Saliith's throwing knife found its way to his heart in time to stop him.

"Move, quickly. Time is of the essence," hissed Gorgoth, not even pausing to wipe his mace clean.

The group passed quickly through the near-empty caverns, avoiding isolated groups of Mythic Dawn; bodies in the main area of the caverns would only draw attention. Gorgoth was using his detect life spell to locate a path; the largest body of life signatures was collected in what appeared to be a massive cavern just below them. There had to be at least eighty cultists in there. Relaying this information to the others, he gripped his mace tighter and started moving quicker, increasing his pace to a brisk jog.

Coming to a high ridge, Gorgoth raised a clenched fist and signalled an abrupt halt. He waved for the group to join him at the edge of the ridge, and together they looked down upon the bulk of the Mythic Dawn.

A colossal statue of Mehrunes Dagon dominated the huge, high-ceilinged cavern that the ridge overlooked. Before the statue was a stone block, occupied by a naked Argonian, evidently drugged and clearly intended as a sacrifice. A growl erupted in Saliith's throat before he checked himself. Moving further ahead, a pedestal was situated on the end of the platform. Standing at the pedestal was Mankar Camoran, his robes blue and unblemished, his face a picture of arrogance and confidence as he preached to his reverent disciples. At his right hand, just off the platform was a female Altmer, clad in the standard red robe, who bore a strong resemblance to him. The rank-and-file of the Mythic Dawn were assembled in a giant semi-circle, hanging on every single one of their leader's words. Gorgoth inwardly snarled at the sight of the Amulet of Kings around Camoran's neck; that would make it a lot harder to get back.

"I have a shot," murmured Aerin. She had an arrow fully drawn, the tip pointing unwaveringly at Camoran's heart.

"...and now, dear brethren, I go to Paradise," Camoran was announcing. The Altmer waved a hand, and a glowing portal, unlike anything Gorgoth had ever seen before, opened behind him, just in front of the statue. Camoran started to turn towards it. Wherever he was going, it would probably be impossible to follow him.

"Kill him," muttered Gorgoth. Aerin immediately released the arrow. It stabbed through the air, heading straight for Camoran's heart.

At the last second, the leader of the Mythic Dawn must have glimpsed something, or maybe Dagon really did watch over him. His body twisted, and the arrow, instead of going straight through his heart, slid on a rib, missing the Altmer's vital organ by mere inches. Choking up blood, the Altmer staggered, turning to look for his attacker, as his daughter leapt up in front of him to put up a magical shield, which skewed the path of a second arrow.

"CAMORAN!" Gorgoth's mighty roar echoed throughout the caverns, mercilessly pounding the eardrums of those next to him. He dispelled all his magic and cast more, leaping from the ridge to the platform, landing between the freshly-healed Camoran and his portal to Paradise. For an instant, their eyes locked; the Orc's cold yellow stare meeting the shocked amber gaze of the Altmer's. Hatred flickered across Camoran's face as Gorgoth's combat snarl slid into place. The Altmer sent Silencing magic straight at Gorgoth, who absorbed it and replied with several fireballs.

"FOR KVATCH!" bellowed Ilend, leaping down the path that led down to the bottom of the cavern, roaring warcries all the way. He was closely followed by Gnaeus and Saliith, the latter throwing his knives as quickly as he could draw them. Up on the ridge, Selene magically smashed aside the magical barrier of Camoran's daughter and nodded to Aerin, who sent an arrow flying towards her heart. This time, she didn't miss. A bitter smile, full of hatred, curled Selene's lips as the battlemage started raining death down upon the followers of Camoran and Dagon, who were only just turning to deal with the threat. Fireballs the size of horses vaporised footsoldiers where they stood. Others were instantly turned into ice statues, and yet more were the recipients of powerful surges of lighting jumping from body to body, leaving them twitching and jerking. Beside the half-elf, Aerin was keeping up a solid rate of fire, each arrow finding an eye, throat, or chest, ignoring armour with pathetic ease.

With the fury that only long-contained wrath can bestow, Ilend crashed into the cultists, smashing one to the ground with his shield, beheading another with such force that his head flew twenty feet, blocking a mace swing and stabbing the offending cultist in the chest, all the while shouting in rage. "That's for Jesan!" he yelled, slicing a cultist's face in two. "That's for Berich! That's for Brenman! FOR KVATCH!" The Imperial's rage simply could not be contained by the Mythic Dawn, particularly when his back was being watched by a remarkably quiet Gnaeus Magnus, who was dispatching any enemy within range with grim brutality, ebony broadsword rising and falling, slicing through cloth and armour, becoming bloodier and bloodier. Saliith was darting through the ranks, crouching low, moving with a speed that defied defences, cutting hamstrings, slicing knees, stabbing stomachs, leaving a trail of screaming, immobile cultists in his wake.

"It is hopeless, Orc!" Camoran was screaming, his face distorted, several different flows of magicka leaving his hands at once, battering at Gorgoth. "You cannot hope to challenge me! I am the exalted servant of Dagon!"

He was right; the sheer power of the Altmer was staggering. Unable to strike back due to the ferocity of Camoran's attacks, Gorgoth could only put all his energies into reflecting and absorbing individual spells, which Camoran was throwing at him relentlessly. At the same time, the Altmer still had the time to start wearing down his magical shield directly using Alteration, meaning that the Orc constantly had to rebuild his barriers. Sensing that he wasn't about to win a magical fight without aid, Gorgoth risked a glance upwards to the ridge; Selene and Aerin were busy fending off a squad of cultists that had flanked them, and even if they were available, Camoran had erected a magical barrier around the entire platform.

Gorgoth tightened the grip on his mace and started moving forward. Camoran would stand no chance if the Orc got him within mace range, but Gorgoth had to fight every step of the way; in addition to the spells already buffeting him, the Altmer saw through his plan and conjured a vicious wind, whipping and tearing at the Orc, slowing him. However, Gorgoth's progress was relentless; soon he would be within range. Neither combatant was aware of the screams of the dead and the dying, the roaring of those locked in mortal combat around them. Any distraction would mean instant death.

Camoran, sweat pricking his brow, realised that there was a far simpler way of stopping Gorgoth than killing him. The Altmer sent Destruction magic surging through the platform under the Orc's feet. Not expecting such a manoeuvre, Gorgoth was surprised as the platform collapsed from under him. He had enough time to roar once in defiance before he was dragged down with the remnants of the platform and buried under many slabs of rock. Camoran levitated over the gap in the platform, shield keeping out the clouds of choking dust, and entered Paradise, closing the portal behind him.

Their leader might have escaped, but the remainder of his troops were not so lucky. Torn to shreds by Selene's magic, the Mythic Dawn were in full retreat, harried every step of the way by Ilend, Gnaeus, and Saliith. Aerin had long since run out of arrows and was prowling the cavern floor, finishing off those who still lived. The cavern itself resembled a slaughterhouse; corpses littered the rocky ground, killed in a variety of different, painful ways. Blood was collecting in pools in the areas where the warriors had gone on their furious rampage through the ranks.

Selene wearily made her way down to the ground level. She alone of all the group had seen the outcome of the fight on the platform, and despite their decimating of the Mythic Dawn, there was no denying the fact that they had failed. The battlemage took both her potions and downed them, feeling the magicka once more flow into her, restoring her depleted reserves. She made her slow way over to the partially destroyed platform, weaving between corpses.

"Hey, what happened there?" inquired Aerin, walking over to join Selene, her shortsword dripping with blood, empty quiver swinging at her hip. The Bosmer was casting an eye over the pile of massive stone slabs that created a chasm between the pedestal and the statue. She frowned as she noticed the half-elf's slumped shoulders and downcast expression. "Wait... is Gorgoth OK? Where is he?"

Selene turned towards Aerin, studied her for a second, then jerked her head towards the huge pile of heavy slabs standing before them. "In there." The Orc's life signature was a pale pink shimmering, unmoving.

It took the Bosmer a second to realise what Selene was saying. Eyes widening, she took a step back, hand half-lifting to her mouth, an expression of horror creeping over her face. "Do something," she hissed, staring at the slabs as though they were living nightmares. "Surely you can lift them off or something." The Bosmer grabbed Selene's shoulders and shook her violently. "You have to do SOMETHING," she urged, the volume of her voice increasing in both pitch and volume.

"If I move hastily, I might crush him even more," explained Selene, forcing herself to focus and moving closer to the pile. Her analysis was interrupted by the arrival of the three warriors, who immediately smelt trouble and rushed over.

"Where's Gorgoth?" demanded Ilend, his eyes hunting the entire cavern for the Orc.

Before anyone could answer, there was an ear-splitting roar of air being suddenly and violently displaced. Everyone threw themselves to the ground as huge chunks of what used to be the platform flew in every direction, propelled by the sheer power of the telekinesis spell that had removed them from their resting place. Gorgoth walked slowly from the rubble and turned, his eyes seeking the portal that Camoran had disappeared into. Though he knew that there was no chance of it still being there, its absence was still a hot poker to his heart.

"Gorgoth! You're alive!" exclaimed Aerin, jumping to her feet. Gorgoth turned, and she stopped in her tracks, her smile sliding from her face. The Orc's face was lopsided, the lower part of his left jaw out of place. His left arm was twisted and was hanging at a sickening angle; the armour all over the warrior-shaman's left side was dented and deeply scarred. However, Aerin's eyes skipped over all that and met Gorgoth's eyes. They were deep amber pits, burning with raw emotions. His cold fury seemed to pulse outwards, and the effort taken to keep him from roaring in anger was evident. Anger at Camoran, anger at himself, and anger at his failure all threatened to rip away the Orc's emotional armour.

The warrior-shaman exhaled slowly, the rage slowly fading from his eyes, his jaw unclenching. "I have failed," he muttered, his speech slightly slurred due to his broken jaw. The words seemed ripped from him, and he was glaring at the ground, evidently contemplating the nature of his defeat.

Selene was about to attempt to offer advice when pink shimmering on the edge of her field of vision caught her eye. She enhanced the range of her detect life spell and grunted. "They're regrouping," she muttered, drawing all eyes to her. "It looks like there might be a cave complex in that direction." She pointed towards one end of the cavern, where a small passageway led to some other part of the base.

"Go and dig them out," ordered Gorgoth. "I'll stay here and... see what I can salvage." They all hesitated; none could predict the actions of the warrior-shaman so soon after he had been defeated. "Go," he said, waving at them impatiently. "In narrow passageways, my magicka's scope for offense will be more limited. Go and kill all you can find." Without waiting for further response, he started off up the platform, disintegrating the armour covering his left forearm, revealing several snapped bone splinters jutting out of his green skin.

"You heard him," barked Ilend, his old Watch Sergeant training kicking in. "We still have some retribution to take care of. My sword is still thirsty!" The swordsman, his sword and armour splattered with the blood of Mythic Dawn, not to mention the blood from some of his own minor wounds, set off at a brisk jog towards the entrance to the deeper caverns. Saliith and Gnaeus rapidly fell in behind him, followed by Selene. Aerin, arrowless, brought up the rear.

Gorgoth sent healing magic to his jaw and grunted as it slipped back into place. His arm was more complicated; he had to search for fragments of his armour that might have made their way into the numerous gashes. Finding none, he sent magicka flowing through the wound, feeling the bone knit back together and set back into place. The advanced nature of the Restoration magic meant that within seconds, there was not even a mark left on his bare green forearm, which remained unblemished save for a small scar he'd obtained in a pub brawl over a decade ago. His armour for the region was gone, but it had been irreparable anyway, and most likely removing it would have meant using a heated blade.

On the altar before the statue of Mehrunes Dagon, the Argonian, apparently meant to have been sacrificed by now, was slowly waking up, groaning as the drug slowly lost its effect on his body, wincing as cramps made themselves known. Gorgoth spared him half a glance before jumping over to the pedestal. He would normally have levitated, but his magicka was almost completely drained, and all three of his potions had been smashed. The pedestal had been left undamaged by the magical duel, and Gorgoth was interested to see a book positioned upon it. Looking closer, his interest soared, and an eyebrow twitched. It was the Mysterium Xarxes.

Reaching for the book, the warrior-shaman instantly detected the evil emanating from the sacred book of the Mythic Dawn. Written by Mehrunes Dagon himself, merely touching it would likely be enough to directly attack the souls of the innocent. Unfortunately for Dagon and Camoran, Gorgoth's soul had long since been stained black with the blood of the innocent, so any corrupting effect would be negligible. Not wishing to tempt fate, the Orc quickly swept the book into the small bag at his belt. Maybe something could be salvaged from it back at Cloud Ruler Temple.

The shuddering of the platform and a scream from the Argonian whipped the Orc's head around. The statue of Dagon was falling to pieces, huge slabs of stone crashing to the ground, causing the entire cavern to shake and reverberate. Sitting up on the sacrificial slab, the drugged Argonian had stood no chance of dodging, and was promptly crushed under the pugnacious head of the deity of the Mythic Dawn. Gorgoth's sole reaction was to raise a hand to protect his eyes from the dust. He cared nothing for the unfortunate sacrifice; the lizard had been stupid enough to get kidnapped in the first place. The Argonian had deserved whatever fate decided to send him, which in this case was a massive slab of carved rock.

After waiting for the dust to settle, Gorgoth jumped off the platform and headed down to the passageways that his comrades had disappeared into. There was killing to be done.

* * *

"They won't be wheat to our scythes this time," growled Ilend as he led the way to where Selene informed him was the biggest gathering of life signatures. "We've lost the element of surprise, which is the most powerful weapon in warfare. Remember that these arse-kissers have some fanaticism, which partly makes up for their lack of discipline. Stay focused." The narrow passage meant they were forced to walk in single file; Selene just behind Ilend, directing him, and Saliith behind her, with throwing knives at the ready. Gnaeus was attempting to shake blood from his broadsword while on the move, and Aerin somewhat nervously guarded their rear, feeling vulnerable now that she was out of arrows. The protective spells that Gorgoth had cast over all of them had worn off, and Alteration wasn't Selene's strongest point, meaning that they were all relying mostly on their own armour.

"We're coming up on what appears to be the first cavern," warned Selene, voice low, hands starting to glow a cool blue with frost magicka. "Looks to be at least fifteen of them in there."

"Split up as soon as possible," instructed Ilend, before raising his shield and rushing into the cavern. An unarmoured cultist spotted him immediately and raised his arms. Ilend instinctively raised his shield and half-closed his eyes, which almost certainly saved his sight as a fireball exploded against his shield. Wincing from the agony of the red-hot metal branding his forearm even though his chainmail gauntlet, Ilend snarled and rushed forward, pushing his shield into the chest of the Altmer. The mage screamed in pain as his flesh started sizzling. An armoured cultist appeared to Ilend's left, but a throwing knife entered the side of his head before either of them could move.

Two frost bolts curled around Ilend and slammed into two cultists just in front of him, turning them to ice statues instantaneously. Selene turned and reflected another fireball back at its caster, resulting in a Breton roaring in pain as he was burnt to a crisp. Seeing no other mages present, the half-elf saw no need to waste further magicka and leapt into the fray, blunt end of her glaive knocking a cultist's feet from under him and bring down the two-foot blade to impale him as he futilely attempted to rise.

Saliith had already hamstrung two cultists, and ducked under the maces of another pair, running up the wall, backflipping off it, and thrusting both his blades deep into a cultist's chest. Kicking the twitching corpse off his blades, the Argonian parried another mace jab and kicked the agent in the head, doing no damage except to his own foot, but staggering the enemy, setting him up for Gnaeus to decapitate him. The old Imperial, his age proving no barrier, was slicing through the cultists with ease, his blade almost as sharp as Ilend's daedric longsword. It seemed that the main purpose of the Mythic Dawn's summoned armour was to provide an aura of intimidation and to offer limited protection; in battle, it was largely ineffective against well-trained warriors with adequate weaponry.

The Mythic Dawn's typical reliance on numbers to break their outnumbered opponents simply was not working; in the small cavern, their quantity could not break down the sheer quality of their attackers, as individually, the Mythic Dawn agents were weak. Only Aerin was having any real trouble; most of her weapons training lay in ranged weaponry, and while she could wield a blade with some skill, her lack of strength and experience made her vulnerable. A large cultist, a Nord, had her backed into a corner and was hacking away at her with his axe. Only an intervention by Selene spared the Bosmer from getting a wound worse than the shallow slash across her stomach.

Within minutes of Ilend's entry to the cavern, all fifteen agents were dead. However, as the Imperial had warned, they had not been so much of a pushover; Gnaeus and Saliith required healing for deep gashes to their ribs from glancing mace blows. Ilend waved off the battlemage's offer to heal his burnt forearm, claiming that it would take too long, and that the pain was manageable. Blood leaking from a scalp wound and the flickering torchlight made the swordsman's face look like a bloodied, snarling mask even more intimidating than the metal masks worn by the Mythic Dawn. The group moved on.

After hewing down two stragglers in the passageways, Selene signalled a halt, as just around the corner, six cultists were evidently hoping to ambush them in a small widening in the tunnel. From the way they were crouching, they were all clutching weapons, but that didn't rule out the presence of a mage. Ilend motioned for Gnaeus to move up beside him, and told Selene to get just behind them. The Imperial suggested a Silencing spell to mask their footsteps, but Selene pointed out that they'd probably already been heard anyway, and a detect life spell was likely. Ilend shrugged and led the attack.

The Mythic Dawn was relying on the element of surprise; they all jumped out of the shadows at once, bellowing warcries and shouting curses. Unfortunately for the first two, they lacked the element of surprise, and were cut to pieces by Ilend and Gnaeus. The next cultist was so large he blocked the path of his comrades. Being both outnumbered and outfought, he was disarmed with contemptuous ease by Gnaeus, before the two Imperials proceeded to cut off both his arms and finally his head. The next cultist clawed his way over the falling body and put all his strength into a swing at Gnaeus. Stepping back to avoid the blow, the old hermit let Ilend slide his blade into the agent's exposed ribcage. The other two cultists turned to flee, but were shattered by Selene's ball lightning before they took three steps.

"Six more paying for their crimes," grated Ilend, stepping over the corpses, barely refraining from spitting on them.

"Ten more in a cavern up ahead," reported Selene. "I think one looks like a mage, but you can never be sure with life signatures."

"Lead, with a shield in place," Ilend told her. "Saliith, do you have any knives left?"

"All gone," rasped the gladiator. "I should have recovered them after that mass slaughter..."

"No time for regretting anything, pondscum," barked Gnaeus, his sword held erect in front of him. "Focus on killing as many as you can with what you have. No sense in pining after what's gone." Saliith's eyes flashed with anger, but he held himself back. Starting an argument now would only aid their enemies.

Selene stepped out into the cavern, and immediately two massive fireballs impacted on her shield, shaking it and almost destroying it. Ilend, Saliith, and Gnaeus rushed around her and leapt into the fray. Selene sent Silence spells towards the two mages; one hit, but the other had enough sense to reflect the spell back at the battlemage, who ducked. The Illusion magic impacted instead on Aerin, who arched an eyebrow at the odd feeling but was otherwise unaffected. That eyebrow arched even more when a collection of arrows, tipped with daedric steel, appeared in her quiver. "Only just thought of that," muttered Selene in explanation.

Glad of finally having something with which to seriously hurt the cultists with apart from her twin shortswords, Aerin smiled and shot down the two enemy mages within seconds. Most of the rank-and-file were already lying dead on the floor, but two were going back-to-back with summoned maces that appeared longer than normal. Unable to break down their effective defence in the small area, Ilend and Gnaeus stepped back and let Aerin pick off one with an arrow in the eye. Saliith shoved the falling corpse out of the way, kicked the surviving agent's mace aside, and sliced his throat open.

"Where's the next lot?" Ilend asked Selene, hefting his shield and leading the way down the next passage. This time, it was Aerin following directly behind the Imperial, arrow nocked and eyes alert.

"Next left. Seven of them." The group turned down the left fork of the passageway and entered a small cavern. Aerin swung outside the cover of Ilend's shield and quickly sent an arrow flying punching through a cultist's chest plate, before jumping back behind Ilend. Saliith, Gnaeus and Selene surged past. Gnaeus sidestepped a clumsy lunge by his sword-wielding opponent and plunged his broadsword deep into his chest. Saliith spun past two confused cultists, looking more like he was on a dance floor than a hostile cave, and buried his blades in their backs. Selene spun her glaive overheard, decapitating one cultist and staggering another with the blunt end, who was promptly taken care of by Ilend cleaving his head in two. The last agent left standing whimpered and dropped his mace, raising his arms in a futile gesture of submission. Apparently, even the fanaticism of the Mythic Dawn sometimes failed in the face of the primal urge to stay alive. Ilend calmly walked up to him and stabbed him in the stomach, stepping over the falling body, leaving him to die slowly.

"Apart from a few stragglers, there don't seem to be many left nearby apart from one big group just over there," observed Selene, pointing at the face of a rock wall. "Must be some way there. There's at least twenty of them." Ilend was turning to find a way, when Selene frowned. "There's something... odd... happening," she muttered, staring at the life signatures. They were fading with alarming speed. "Either they've learnt how to teleport, or they're being slaughtered." Distant screams echoing down the passage supported the latter theory.

"I think Gorgoth might have found them," rasped Saliith. "I doubt he'd have stayed moping on that platform for long."

Not wanting the Orc to get all the kills, despite the considerable body count he'd achieved already, Ilend immediately set off in search of the carnage, following the sounds of the dying cultists. They eventually emerged into a large cavern that had clearly been used as a sleeping quarter; bunks were carved into the rock walls of the cave, and the moss and lichen had been scraped away. Gorgoth was standing in the centre of a pile of shattered bodies, holding an armoured agent aloft by the throat. Eyes flickering towards his comrades, the warrior-shaman grunted in greeting, bringing his left hand up to join his right. Twisting the cultist's neck brutally, Gorgoth completely shattered it, then completed the job by ripping his head off.

"Our work here is done," intoned the Orc, tossing the head and body aside and ignoring Selene gulping squeamishly. "We have dealt a devastating blow to the Mythic Dawn. There is nothing else for us here. We are leaving."

"And how do you intend to get out of here any time this year?" asked Ilend, somewhat angry that his revenge was being cut short. But even he was forced to acknowledge that Gorgoth was right; hunting down the last few stragglers would be wasting time.

In response, Gorgoth pulled a small rock hanging from the ceiling by a thick rope. A deep, grinding sound emanated from somewhere, and the cavern floor began to vibrate suddenly as one of the rock walls started to slide into the ground. The open gap showed a direct path back to the entrance to the entire cavern complex, with daylight visible at the end of the passage. Sprawled on the floor was the corpse of the doorkeeper, his neck twisted so that his face was staring at the ceiling even though his body was lying on its stomach. Apparently, no-one had been through the passage since they'd arrived, or Gorgoth's handiwork would have at least been moved.

"Neat," observed Aerin, a small smile appearing on her face as she appreciated the convenience of the shorter route out. "Let's get outta here. I could use some sun."

Within seconds, the party was emerging from the caverns and blinking in the sudden sunlight. The sun had found a rare gap in the clouds, and its reflections were shimmering on the surface of the lake. No-one immediately left for the horses; the departure of adrenaline from their systems was making them think about the big picture for the first time. While they had taken no casualties, none had left the caverns unscathed; each bore the blood from several minor wounds, most of which had been healed.

Gorgoth wandered off alone and found a ridge overlooking the lakes to kneel on, running over the events in his head. Saliith went to check on the horses, while Selene sat down on a nearby rock and stared off into the distance, deep in thought. Ilend went down to the lake, where he started washing the caked blood, both his and the enemy's, from his skin and armour.

"So, does it feel better?" inquired Aerin, joining him, idly picking up a stone and skimming it across the water. The Bosmer had escaped largely unscathed, only a bloody smear across her stomach betraying any signs of the hectic fighting she'd partaken in. "You finally got the revenge ya were looking for; does it make a difference?"

Ilend stared into the bloodied water, at his grim-looking reflection, for some time before answering. "I lost many good friends, many comrades, that day," he muttered, speaking slowly. "Jesan, Berich, Brenman... too many to list." The Imperial's eyes were blue ice as he raised his head and stared out across the expanse of the lake. The gore-covered swordsman was clearly out of place in the tranquil beauty of Lake Arrius. "This won't bring them back," he continued turning to face Aerin. "But it makes me feel a bit better, knowing that they have, in some part, been avenged." A smile attempted to pluck at the corner of the Imperial's face, but his grim demeanour quickly returned. "The Mythic Dawn have paid their share of the debt. Now Dagon has to pay his."

Aerin spluttered in disbelief. "You? Take on a Daedric Prince in the name of revenge?" Her tone was incredulous. "You're a good swordsman, Ilend, but ya won't survive that."

Ilend spun to fully face her, and she kept up her gaze, despite his still-open scalp wound leaking blood down the left side of his face, lending him an intimidating air. "I won't _be_ alone, Aerin," he growled. "Most of Cyrodiil will stand with me. You, Gorgoth, the other cities, the Legion..." Ilend spread his arms wide. "We'll make Dagon pay for Kvatch by teaching him a very painful lesson. _Stay out of Nirn_." The last sentence was delivered emphatically in a harsh tone of voice that meant business.

Aerin hesitated for a second, then waded into the lake, moving over to stand beside him, wincing as the cold waters lapped up to her waist. "You're still bleeding," she muttered, pointing to the gash on Ilend's forehead. She also knew for a fact that the burn on his arm still hadn't been healed, most likely because his skin was now glued to his armour, meaning that it would take more than a causal healing spell to put right.

The Imperial frowned, then put a hand to his temple, looking genuinely shocked when it came away covered in blood. "You know, I never noticed," he sighed, passing his hand over the wound again, healing it. He looked back down at the Bosmer, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable as the cold waters of Lake Arrius seeped through her leathers. "It wasn't your fault that you missed Camoran," he told her, prompting a look of surprise and an arched eyebrow. "He obviously has Dagon's own luck, as well as his magic. You can't blame yourself for him dodging."

Aerin sighed and looked down at the surface of the lake, biting her lip. "I should have gone for his head," she mumbled. "Any arrow fired by Trueshot can penetrate an Orc's skull, and it wouldn't have mattered if he'd turned..."

"Remember what Gorgoth says?" asked Ilend, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Never regret anything. It's a waste of time. You did your best. We all did." A small smile managed to appear on the Imperial's face. "Hey, we effectively wiped out the Mythic Dawn. That's something to be proud of." He shook her gently, attempting to coax her out of her self-depreciation. "Come on, you're still the best archer I know. Let's get out of this bloody lake; I've heard it might fuck up your bladder." The Bosmer allowed herself to be guided back onto dry land by the Imperial, who was falling back to his Watch Sergeant training, this time to inspire a dispirited comrade.

Meanwhile, still sitting on her rock, Selene didn't even register Gnaeus's presence as the old Imperial sat down on a similar, nearby rock. "You look glum," he observed, holding up his broadsword to make sure he'd cleaned it properly before sliding it smoothly back into his scabbard. His tunic was stained with drying blood, and several tears marked where enemy weapons had found his flesh on more than one occasion. "Helps if you talk."

The half-elf sighed heavily. "I thought that this might help the pain a bit," she explained. "But it doesn't. At all." She buried her face in her hands. "And all this time I've convinced myself that it'd get better when the Mythic Dawn were destroyed..." Selene let out a low groan. "I've just realised they weren't really all responsible for Whiterock. That was done from Oblivion, not from Cyrodiil..." Her shoulders slumped even further, and another moan escaped her lips.

"Well, crying about it won't help matters," barked Gnaeus, reaching over and pounding her on the back. Unfortunately for him, his bare fist landed on her chainmail upper armour, which was rough enough to graze his hand. Ignoring the stinging, he continued with his tirade. "So you were under the illusion that false hope inevitably gives you. Get over it." The Imperial stood and started pacing. "No use in despairing about the past when you can be focusing on the future. Don't look back with regret when you can look forward with determination." Gnaeus drew closer and forcibly separated her hands from her face, pulling her straight, and resisting the urge to wince when she glared at him. Even with tears streaking her face, she could be as intimidating as her father at times.

"So what do you suggest I look forward to, Magnus?" she hissed, her voice pure venom. "What do we have to fight Dagon with? Nothing, that's what! We've failed!" She spat the last words and lurched to her feet, walking away towards where the horses were tied. A deep voice stopped her in her tracks.

"We have this."

Slowly, Selene turned. Gorgoth was standing just behind the rock she'd been sitting on, holding out a strange-looking book. It was off-white in colour, and appeared to be a thick tome of some sort. The daedric lettering on the front, combined with the aura of evil that appeared to surround it, confirmed her suspicions. "We have the Mysterium Xarxes?" she breathed, hardly daring to believe it.

"You know of it?" asked Gorgoth, returning the book to the small bag hanging from his belt. The damage to the warrior-shaman's armour, under the light of the sun, looked even worse than it had in the cave. In order to get his arm reformed, the entire left gauntlet had been disintegrated, and sizeable dents on the left side of the breastplate must have been causing him considerable discomfort. The left pauldron had been rammed into the side of his neck, and was slowly rubbing away at the skin, slowly causing an angry weal to appear. Gorgoth didn't seem to notice.

"The one thing we had on Whiterock was a well-stocked library," explained Selene. "I know a bit about it, but not all that much." The half-elf looked up at Gorgoth eagerly, starting to feel less pessimistic. "Could we use that against Dagon?"

"I'm not sure," responded Gorgoth. "Right now, all we can hope to do is report back to Cloud Ruler Temple with what we have. Assemble at the horses."

Selene needed no further encouragement, and scrambled off up the slope. Gnaeus stayed for long enough to give Gorgoth a sharp look, then walked off in the same direction at a slower pace. Gorgoth looked out across Lake Arrius, his hand tightening over the book in his bag, ignoring the pulsating evil that throbbed under his touch. "This isn't over, Camoran," he growled softly, turning to return to the horses.

Saliith grunted in pain as he reached up to clean a stray spot of his blood off his horse's mane. A wound he'd passed off as negligible before had turned out to be more serious than expected; he suspected that his kidney had been nicked by the agent's blade before he'd sliced the man's throat. The Argonian had already cleaned most of the blood off himself and his battered scale armour, but a slow, steady trickle of blood continued to seep from that wound down his right leg. He wasn't willing to waste a potion when healers were nearby, and resigned himself to waiting in pain for Selene or Gorgoth to arrive.

Fortunately, he didn't have to wait long, as Selene soon appeared and healed the wound as soon as he asked. It left a nasty-looking gash in his armour, but it was nothing that Gin-Wulm couldn't fix. Gorgoth appeared soon after, clutching his belt bag for some reason. Saliith finished looking over his horse, whom he'd named Gladiator – though the aged bay wasn't much of one – and started untying him.

"Where are those two bloody young whippersnappers?" asked Gnaeus, his head swivelling in a futile attempt to locate Ilend and Aerin. "Just like the young to decide to hold up those who know better. I hope they're not having sex under a bush." The Imperial harrumphed and descended into unintelligible grumbles.

"Down there, coming this way," replied Gorgoth, pointing to an area without even looking in its direction. Apparently, his detect life spell was effective even on the fringes of his peripheral vision. "And as you owe your life to Aerin, you might want to make allowances." The old hermit's head whipped around, and he fixed Gorgoth with a glare, demanding an explanation. "She shot Camoran's daughter, who otherwise would have at least muted Selene for a couple of minutes. Without Selene's magical support, you'd have been overrun by their numbers."

Before Gnaeus could reply, the Bosmer in question appeared, emerging from a grove of trees, looking in far higher spirits than she had when they'd left the cave. Ilend, scratching at some drying blood on his face, followed her. "So, what's our next move, big guy?" she asked Gorgoth.

"We deliver the Mysterium Xarxes to Cloud Ruler Temple," grunted Gorgoth, patting his belt bag. He ignored Aerin's look of confusion. "It may be our only way of getting the Amulet of Kings back, and I intend to follow every lead even if it takes me to the end of the world. Mount up." Within minutes, spurred on by the Orc's determination, the group had left Lake Arrius behind. Their leader might have escaped, but most of the Mythic Dawn lay dead in their headquarters. There would be no new dawn for them.

* * *

**A/N: My most action-packed chapter for a while, I really hope it's speedy creation didn't hurt the quality, as I quite like this chapter. One thing that I should inform you about is the character survival rate; it seems high right now, and that's because it is: not only did no main character die in that very dangerous battle, but many NPCs have survived that shouldn't: Captain Renault, Glenroy, and Menien Goneld spring to mind. Fear not, however, if you're that sort of person who dislikes everyone surviving impossible odds: People WILL die before this fic is out, and quite a few of them; you've probably never read my Valkyria Chronicles oneshot, but in that, only two of the characters survive. Killing characters gives a sense of realism; you wouldn't expect EVERYONE to survive the Oblivion crisis. And, no, not even Gorgoth is safe...**

**Once again, review. Not only does it help me, it also inspires me to write more, and write it faster. Go on, click the link below this author's note...**


	20. Spies

**A/N: I know Chapter Nineteen was uploaded quicker than normal, but that's no excuse not to review it... 5 reviews is OK, but I ALWAYS NEED MORE. I think I always say that in my author's notes, but that doesn't make it any less true.**

**Underpaid Critic: When I first created him, I considered making Gnaeus the Hero of Daggerfall, but note that he's been gone from the mainland for 35 years. That means he left one year before the events of Arena, so it's impossible for him to be any of the PCs from a mainstream TES game. And Camoran might be an easy fight in Paradise ingame, but he SHOULDN'T be. He's one of the most powerful mages of all time, and he's fighting from within his own realm. He SHOULD be invincible.**

**Zombie chow: Always have loved gore, though not gore for the sake of gore. That's just bloodthirsty.**

**Random Reader: Adrenaline Rush is very powerful, yes, might use that later. And this'll probably end at the 'end', but nothing's definite yet. As for the 'Infernal City' book, I haven't read it, and I'm not treating anything within those pages as canon unless it's confirmed in Skyrim.**

**Revelation6166: Gorgoth? A sympathetic character? I know what you mean, but, in later chapters, you're very unlikely to feel any sympathy towards him...**

**Anyhow, enough from me for now. Leave a review when you've finished reading.  
**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty: Spies**

At Cloud Ruler Temple, the first snow was falling. Fine white particles drifted onto the ancient stone battlements, slowly covering the ground. Any snowflake that fell near a brazier instantly melted, but for those away from the sources of heat, all they could do was shiver and pull their cloaks tighter. It was only mid-autumn, but the north winds were blowing freezing air from the Jeralls and Skyrim down to Cyrodiil. The lack of heat from the sun, hidden under the rolling black clouds, added to the heavy, brooding atmosphere.

Jauffre suppressed a sigh of relief as he took the weight off his legs by leaning heavily on the battlements, under the cover of one of the watch towers. The Breton would never admit it, but he was feeling his age; he'd been semi-retired when the Emperor had been assassinated, and had been planning to retire completely before the year had been out. Now his duty was calling on his eighty-one year old body once again, asking it to endure one more crisis. Jauffre was weathered and hardy, but even he could not stave off the effects of age; he was no Telvanni, no masterful mage who could prolong his life through magical means.

"I should have sent reinforcements," he muttered in a low voice. He was speaking to himself; the other Blade occupying the watch tower, a shivering Imperial named Belisarius Relan, was too focused on his duty to hear his Grandmaster mumbling to himself. "Sending them into the lion's den alone was... foolish." Jauffre had regretted not acting the moment Baurus and Glenroy had showed up, telling him that the location of the Mythic Dawn had been found, but, inside, he knew that, even if he had sent Blades to reinforce Gorgoth, they would have got there too late anyway, and Gorgoth would not have waited. Jauffre was certain of that.

Belisarius's voice shook Jauffre out of his daze. "I see someone coming, sir," he intoned, leaning forward to peer at something on the path leading from Bruma, pulling his cloak tighter around him as he did so. Jauffre moved across to the front of the watch tower and looked down to where the Imperial was pointing. The Breton's eyes had degraded over time, so it took him a few seconds to locate what Belisarius had seen. When he finally located the mounted party making its slow way up the mountainside, his first instinct was to sigh in relief. However, as they drew closer, a hint of worry invaded his wrinkled features.

"Is it just my pessimism, or do they not look like returning victors?" Jauffre asked Belisarius, who shrugged. The Grandmaster hurried out of the watch tower and ordered a nearby Blade to open the gates. He moved to the section of wall immediately above the gate and, with the aid of a fellow Blade, wrenched a lever, which initiated the process of opening the massive gates down below. Jauffre was already on his way to the steps leading down to the entrance.

"Have they returned?" asked Martin, who had apparently been taking a morning walk. The heir had gained a lot of free time ever since Lathar had deemed his advanced training complete, and left Martin with a training regime to follow, along with sparring sessions every day to constantly hone his fighting skills. Jauffre nodded in reply and they started descending the steps together.

Gorgoth was the first in line walking up the steps. Upon seeing Jauffre and Martin walking to meet them, he handed Vorguz's reins to Aerin and walked to meet the Grandmaster of the Blades and the heir to the empty throne of Tamriel. The rest of the party walked past them, leading their horses to the stable. Observing Blades raised eyebrows and started muttering about their dented armour, parts of which were still bloody.

"Do you have the Amulet?" asked Jauffre. While he was naturally concerned for the welfare of one of his men – the Orc's armour was battered and parts were missing – the fate of Tamriel was somewhat more important.

Both the Breton and the Imperial knew something was wrong when Gorgoth, instead of responding in the affirmative, wearily motioned that they should go into the great hall. Falling in behind him with increasing worry, Jauffre barely waited for the doors to close behind them before repeating the question.

"Mankar Camoran was too strong for me," sighed Gorgoth, his face expressionless as always, but a hint of frustration evident in his voice. "He escaped to his Paradise, taking the Amulet with him. I know of no way to follow him."

The Orc had not bothered to keep his voice down, and there was utter silence in the great hall. Every eye was staring at Gorgoth, some accusing, some understanding. The hope seeping out of the room was almost tangible. After some working of his jaw, it was Jauffre that eventually broke the silence.

"Surely you got _something_ out of this?" he asked, feeling despair threatening to rise and crushing it brutally. Beside him, Martin was also keeping his emotions successfully in check, ignoring the snow that was melting and trickling down the neck of his robes.

"Most of the Mythic Dawn has been destroyed, and I recovered this," replied Gorgoth, taking the Mysterium Xarxes out of his belt bag.

"By the Nine!" shouted Martin, dragging Jauffre back with him as he lurched several steps back from Gorgoth, looking at the tome in his hand as though it was a deadly viper. "The Mysterium Xarxes is far too dangerous to handle, Gorgoth!" Some of the Blades in the hall had looked around, placing hands on sword hilts, before realising that the only danger apparently came from a book.

"Dagon cannot corrupt my soul, Martin; it is black enough already." Gorgoth laid the Xarxes down on a nearby table. "It is the best I could come up with. We could possibly use it somehow."

Martin had calmed down quickly, and he cautiously edged closer to the Xarxes, peering at it. "You say that Camoran went somewhere you could not follow?" he asked Gorgoth.

The Orc nodded. "He called it 'Paradise'," he rumbled. "He opened a portal to it and went through. His magic was too powerful for me to do anything but delay him." Gorgoth tapped the cover of the Xarxes. "I suspect that he used this to get there."

Martin nodded, scratching his chin, deep in thought. "Then, maybe – just maybe – we could use this to work out how to open a portal to Paradise," he mused, speaking half to himself. "I have some knowledge of this daedric script; I might be able to attempt to translate some of it, given time."

"And what use would that be?" barked Gnaeus, brushing past Gorgoth on his way to the fire. "You go to Paradise, Camoran will kill you. Simple. It's a fool's hope."

"I don't see any other path," retorted Selene, walking over to look at the Xarxes, casting a glare at the old Imperial's retreating back.

"How long until it's translated?" asked Gorgoth. He could speak four languages, but daedric script was far beyond his reading ability.

Instead of answering, Martin picked up a nearby dagger in its scabbard and cautiously opened the Xarxes with it, making sure his flesh never came into contact with the crisp pages. The daedric symbols were written in a dark red ink that was almost certainly blood. "With the correct books, I can make a start," he muttered, running his tongue over his teeth. "It will take time, but it's best to be sure."

Selene looked closer at the script, leaning so close that her golden hair almost brushed the page. Martin winced. "I think I read a few books back on Whiterock about daedric scripts of this kind," she observed, running her eyes over the crimson letterings. "I might be able to help you," she told Martin, looking up at him. "Two translators has to be better than one; I'm guessing we can't work on this for long periods of time."

"Most assuredly not," hissed Martin. "Even after reading it for mere seconds, I can feel its evil starting to cast tendrils over me. Reading it for more than an hour at a time would be suicide."

"I'll leave that with you, then," grunted Gorgoth, turning and looking for the door that would take him in the general direction of the armoury. "I need a new gauntlet." Jauffre followed him, leaving Martin and Selene to frown over their new book.

"I've been meaning to give you a warning, Gorgoth," muttered the Breton, keeping his voice low, forced to make long strides to keep up with the Orc. "Several of the Bretons here are High Rock born-and-bred, and I think a few of them come from regions that have a bad history with Orcs."

"That's understandable," grunted Gorgoth. "Our peoples have had our share of disagreements in the past. I trust professionalism will mute such feelings?"

"Mostly, it will, but some hatreds run deep. You of all people must understand that."

"I do." Gorgoth paused. "Are there any Bretons here from the Sharoth region?"

Jauffre furrowed his brow, thinking. "One that I can think of without consulting the roll," he replied. "Callia Petit. Fairly young, a good soldier. I believe she grew up in a village in the Sharoth region." The Breton frowned. "I think she was affected by the troubles in that region..." He suddenly looked up at Gorgoth sharply.

"I will say no more, Jauffre," rumbled Gorgoth. "But it would be wise if you kept her away from me. Old memories die hard." He turned and walked off in the direction of the armoury, leaving Jauffre to wonder at this new - and troubling - insight into Gorgoth's past. He'd have to tell Renault to investigate.

* * *

"Why do bloodstains _always_ have ta take _ages_ ta come out?" asked Aerin rhetorically, holding up her boiled leather cuirass and frowning at the dried blood staining the area around the slash across the stomach area. The wound itself had hurt, but had been quickly healed by Selene. She and Ilend had the East Barracks to themselves, and were taking the time to finally see how much their equipment had suffered.

"Maybe it's an incentive for you to fight harder, so that you don't _have_ to clean your armour?" replied Ilend absent-mindedly, as he removed the last of his chainmail. He sincerely hoped that the armourers at Cloud Ruler wouldn't charge too much to repair it; the damage wasn't too bad, and the armour could still be worn, but sizeable dents and tears would render him vulnerable to skilled enemies. A thought occurred to him, and he looked over at the Bosmer.

"Aerin, why do you carry two blades around? I've only ever seen you fight with both of them once, and I think that was just you attempting to show off."

"Ever heard of a spare, guardsman?" asked Aerin, patting the pair of elven blades that crossed each other as they ran across her stomach, held there by her sword belt. "I mostly use one, but... ya never know when you need more."

Ilend snorted. "Using two swords at once is hard to master," he informed her. "Judging from what I saw in the caverns, you're average at best with one. I sincerely doubt using two blades at once would do you any good."

An angry flush appeared on Aerin's cheeks, and she immediately whipped both swords free from their scabbard. "You want to see what I can do with two?" she asked him, glaring down at him.

The Imperial rolled his eyes and stood, slightly crouched, ready to move in any direction. He kept his sword in his scabbard; he could immediately tell that he had no need for it. "Surprise me," he told the Bosmer. "Land a hit on me, and I'll take it back." While he wasn't wearing armour, and Aerin's blades were sharp, he was quietly confident of not having to deal with any wounds.

Aerin needed no further encouragement, and leapt in, aiming a blow at the Imperial's midsection and another at his head. Ilend smoothly ducked to avoid one, batted the other aside, darted in, and grabbed Aerin by the throat, throwing her to the ground, making her grunt, but she held on to both blades and got back up.

"Sloppy," taunted Ilend. "If I'd had a weapon, and was meaning to use it, you'd be dead by now." He sent Aerin what he knew was his most infuriating smirk. She growled something unintelligible and charged him again, this time slashing down across his body. Fortunately for Ilend, her arms and most of her torso were bare, so he could tell by the state of her muscles that she was putting too much into the blow. Ilend backpedalled quickly, in time to dodge the falling blades, his lack of armour meaning he could move a lot quicker than normal. Charging forward before Aerin could recover and raise her swords again, he brought both fists down on her exposed back, smashing her to the ground. He immediately planted a boot on her back, pinning her there despite how much she squirmed.

"You're far more balanced with one sword," he observed, ignoring the Bosmer's outraged snarling and demands to be released. "Keep the other one as a spare, or learn how to use both at once. At the moment, when using two, you're more of a danger to yourself, unless your enemy is a slack-jawed green recruit not out of basic." Ilend moved back, keeping ready for whatever the Wood Elf would throw at him as she slowly got to her feet.

"Nice way to boost my confidence, guardsman," she growled, sheathing both blades and checking over her hair, though he had been careful not to touch it.

"If possible, keep the enemy at a distance," continued Ilend, relaxing when he was confident that she wasn't about to launch herself at him. "You're probably the best archer I've had the good fortune to fight beside, and Trueshot compliments that. Use what you've got, and use it well."

"Yeah, well, that _is_ the general idea, Ilend," sighed Aerin, walking back over to where her boiled leathers lay. "If I never had ta swing a blade again in my life, I'd be ecstatic."

"That's the thing, Aerin," muttered Ilend, returning to where he'd been sitting on a bedroll to continue the analysis of his armour. "Even if you do shoot down most opponents before they reach you, there's still times when you're going to have to leap into melee, and that's where you're vulnerable." He turned and shot Aerin an unreadable glance. "I don't want you to be vulnerable." His voice was completely flat.

"Your concern is touching. Now _act_ on it instead of preaching," retorted Aerin, throwing her armour into a disordered pile atop her claimed bedroll. "Instead of laughing at my antics and pinning me to a dusty floor, some training would be greatly appreciated, ya know." She folded her arms and glared at the Imperial, who was rubbing at stubborn patch of blood on his pauldron.

"Is that your way of kindly asking me to generously donate some of my valuable time, for free, to teach you how to not accidentally chop off your own toes?" asked Ilend, standing and stretching, wincing as some of his joints cracked. His muscles were getting that familiar tight feeling. They'd be badly knotted after his next rest, he could tell.

"Given the way that you have leered at me consistently in the past, I don't think you spending some time alone with me while I'm not wearing all that much would be particularly taxing for you, guardsman," she told him coolly, looking up at him with eyebrow arched.

"Bloody persuasive bitch," muttered Ilend, but a slow smile was relentlessly making its way onto his face. "At least you know how to train," he admitted. "But, then, you are a gladiator, that'd be expected." He sighed and shook his head, spreading his arms wide. "To be honest, Aerin, I'd teach you if you were wearing layers of winter clothing. I've got nothing else to do right now; I doubt Gorgoth would appreciate me sneaking off back to Skingrad without him forming a clear plan of action." At that moment, his stomach let forth a mighty rumble. "Right, I'm starving. Let's see what swill they're passing off as lunch."

* * *

"It will take some time for them to decipher the Mysterium Xarxes; too long for you to stay here for the duration with nothing to occupy you," Jauffre was explaining to Gorgoth as they walked along the outer wall of Cloud Ruler Temple, ignoring the falling snow and the freezing wind buffeting at them. "There could be, however, work to keep you occupied other than your Fighter's Guild commitments."

Gorgoth stopped and put a hand on the wall, peering out into the snow. "I was planning to leave for Chorrol today, just after lunch," he rumbled. "What did you have in mind?"

"There have been reports of spies seen in the area. We believe that they are based in Bruma." Jauffre leaned on the wall beside Gorgoth, shivering despite his best efforts to stop. He really needed a thicker cloak now that he was back in the north. "Captain Steffan has the full details; it is important that the Mythic Dawn and Dagon know as little as possible."

Gorgoth tapped his canine, mulling over the task. "I think Ilend and Aerin would be better suited to this," he observed, surprising Jauffre. The Breton hadn't expected anything other than acceptance. "From what I hear, there would be very little work to occupy them in Skingrad; Saliith has told me he intends to return to the Arena, leaving today, and Gnaeus, I know for a fact, will not leave the fireside until winter is over."

"What about yourself?" asked Jauffre, still shocked that his newest Blade was turning down a seemingly important assignment. "You seem to be the best qualified for the assignment."

"That is where you are wrong, Grandmaster," replied Gorgoth. "Back in Orsinium, I had no need for spies and rarely had to deal with them. Ilend and Aerin have all the skills needed for the job and will attract far less attention than me; my face is well-known to these people. They are slightly more anonymous." He paused. "Besides, they have fewer reasons to avoid this than I do."

Jauffre was slowly nodding. "I see," he muttered. "I suppose they could suffice. I'll inform them immediately. I'll send a messenger to you, wherever you are, when Martin and Selene have translated the Mysterium Xarxes." With that, the aging Grandmaster turned on his heel and walked back to the great hall, his unruly cloak torn by the wind. Gorgoth turned back to observe the snow; the north wind was blowing hard. If it kept up like this, the snow would be lying thick on the ground. Between his magical ability and the fact that parts of Orsinium saw thick snow all year round, Gorgoth was not one to be slowed by snow, which could often be used to his advantage. After standing still for another few seconds, the Orc turned and headed for the canteen.

Earlier, he'd managed to secure a gauntlet that was actually big enough to cover his entire forearm, meaning that once again, there was no exposed flesh beneath his neck. The steel gauntlet, brand new, seemed somewhat incongruous against the rest of the Orc's battle-worn plate armour, but it was better than having any unarmoured section. He had no desire to be vulnerable. There was no benefit to be had from weakness. Malacath frowned upon it.

Reaching the canteen's exterior door, he was about to open it when it opened and Saliith stepped out, wiping a trail of gravy from his jaw. "It was good fighting by your side, Gorgoth," said the Argonian. "If you need me, you know where to find me. Count me in if anything comes up." The lizard paused, seeming to search for words. "At the very least, when I work with you, I'm making a difference. At the Arena, I'm only lining the wallets of gamblers." It seemed that the gladiator had undergone a transformation from when Gorgoth had first met him; he had gone from glory-hunting Arena hopeful to bitter warrior looking to make a difference in a matter of weeks. There was no doubt that his killing of Branwen had changed his view on life.

"It's good to know that there are people I can count on," replied Gorgoth, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I'll make sure Jauffre sends you a message if anything comes up. Fight well." Saliith nodded in response and left for the stables, rolling his shoulders, looking determined, ignoring the cold despite only wearing a single thin cloak over his scale armour. Gorgoth looked after him with a slightly appraising look on his rugged face. That Argonian would be Yellow Team Champion before long if he played his cards right. Gorgoth turned and entered the canteen, the smell of roasting meat washing over him. He breathed in deeply. The smells reminded him of how little he'd eaten over the past few days.

* * *

Lathar, Drillmaster of Cloud Ruler Temple, a grizzled veteran of sixty years, was not easily distracted. A deep scar, standing out against his dark skin, marred his face, running from his jawline, touching his ear, and ending at his temple, just brushing his close-cropped iron-grey hair. It was four decades old, but the lessons it had taught him were kept forever fresh by his passing them down to the new Blades he trained. Distraction was a huge danger, to be feared and reviled; distraction could kill quicker than the scorpions in the Alik'r desert. But Lathar, at that moment, was finding it rather hard to concentrate on sharpening his dai-katana. He shook his head and focused on his whetstone, turning his head so that he didn't have to look at the other two occupants of Cloud Ruler Temple's smaller training room. Out of sight, out of mind.

Ilend was having no problem with concentrating on his current task, despite his proximity to the distraction that so plagued Lathar. At his insistence, Aerin had removed all her clothing save for her bra and a pair of tight shorts that barely reached mid-thigh. His reasoning was that he could see her muscles working and point out how to improve her posture. Despite some slight protests by Aerin, she was a gladiator, and hence knew the importance of training properly; besides, she always had enjoyed flaunting herself in front of a massive audience, and this wasn't so different.

They were sparring using their actual weapons, despite the dangers involved. Ilend maintained that it was better than using wooden practise blades, which felt too little like their actual weapons to be of much use. As he wasn't using either his shield or any other armour, they were both vulnerable to sparring injuries, but they had both potions and Ilend's magic on hand. Fortunately, the smaller practise room was empty apart from themselves and Lathar; at this time, most of the Blades were eating lunch, on duty, or practising in the larger, better-equipped training room, or braving the weather and training outside.

Aerin growled in frustration as, once again, her slender, elven-forged blade was pushed aside by Ilend's larger, rougher, daedric blade. Their weapons seemed to resemble their owners, Aerin had noticed: her own blades were both slender and delicate, but with an edge sharp enough to slice through light armour if used correctly. On the other hand, Ilend's daedric longsword, taken from a Dremora at the battle of Kvatch, both looked and was a brutal weapon that could cleave bone and plate with ease, if enough force was applied. At the moment, that blade was not being used for offensive purposes; Ilend had told her to see if she could break down his defence, which, even with his shield leaning against the wall, was formidable. Her steel had yet to touch his skin.

"Focus. Don't get frustrated." Ilend's voice was never changing from the instructive tone he'd adopted as soon as they'd entered the training room. Apparently, he'd done his fair few stints of helping out with the training of new recruits, and knew a thing or two about training. "Frustration just leads to you overextending and exposing yourself. I've already seen one gap I could have exploited." Aerin set her jaw and brushed the strands of hair out of her eyes, tucking them behind her ears before preparing to attack again.

She darted in, sword gripped firmly in both hands, swinging towards Ilend's lower ribs. The Imperial stepped back, planted his feet, and smashed her blade aside; in his defensive posture, he had no need to look for an opening, so he created none. Aerin recovered quickly, earning a grunt from Ilend – apparently, that was praise – and moved in closer, blade darting up her opponent's body, streaking for his chin. Ilend ducked and sidestepped away, sighing and gesturing at the momentary opening Aerin had left on her flank before she recovered.

"Try remembering _something_ I've taught you," he sighed. "Never over-commit like that, though a strike like that could catch a slow-witted opponent off-guard. I won't work with me." The swordsman rammed his blade into his scabbard and crouched slightly. Aerin raised an eyebrow. "This time, I'll take any openings. Let's see if you can hit me when I'm dodging." Ilend clenched his fists, tightening the scarred knuckles until they cracked.

Deciding to attempt to multitask, Aerin attempted conversation. "How do ya think Gorgoth expects us ta fare dealing with those spies Jauffre told us to hunt down?" she asked, chopping at Ilend's right arm. He backpedalled rapidly to avoid the blow. Aerin advanced again, slashing across his midsection, then thrusting at his leg. Ilend kicked her blade aside and moved to the left, darting into the centre of the practise room. He could move quickly when not weighed down by his chainmail.

"It's something to do," observed Ilend, wrenching her sword arm up. Before he could launch his knuckles at her bare midriff, Aerin had twisted out of his grasp and aimed a backwards stab at his stomach, which Ilend sidestepped with ease. "I don't fancy going all the way back to Skingrad just to hang around doing nothing. Making a few thousand betting on Saliith might be attractive, but I'd see no action myself." The swordsman knocked her attacking arm aside, but then his left jab brushed past her stomach as she twisted out of his range again. "Flexible," noted Ilend, nodding slightly. Then his eyebrows drew down again. "But if I was a Khajiit, your stomach would be ripped open."

"So, when do ya plan ta go ta Captain Steffan for the info?" asked Aerin, ignoring his observation and launching a major attack, blade dividing the air in front of Ilend as he was forced back to the wall. "The way I see it, the Blades don't like being kept wa-" She was cut off by Ilend forcing her sword arm aside and smashing his fist into her stomach, followed by a scything kick to the back of her legs that sent her sprawling to the ground.

"Your last swing was too wide," observed Ilend, offering her his hand. She accepted it, and he hauled her to her feet. "You're lucky I pulled my punches."

"Lucky?" muttered Aerin. Her stomach would hurt in the morning, that was certain. "Anyhow, my question, guardsman?" She moved back onto the balls of her feet, sword ready.

"We'll pay him a visit whenever you're done training," Ilend told her, dropping back into his defensive crouch, fists clenched and half-raised. "Just say the word."

"I think I've got some left in me yet," growled Aerin, ducking low and charging upwards at Ilend, blade aimed at carving his chest open. Ilend grabbed her sword arm, lifted her bodily off the ground, and threw her to the floor, Aerin crumpled upon landing, swiftly jumped to her feet, and stabbed at Ilend before he was fully recovered. The swordsman barely moved in time, and Aerin's blade grazed his ribcage, drawing a line of blood. However, the Bosmer had overextended herself, and, next thing she knew, she was flat on her back, dazed, looking up at the ceiling, tasting blood in her mouth from Ilend's vicious backhand. She'd never suspected that he could hit so hard. Ilend himself had lifted his shirt and was tracing the scratch that Aerin's attack had left, looking impressed at the drops of blood smearing his thumb. Blue healing magic erased the wound, but the blood remained, staining Ilend's skin and shirt. The Imperial's eyes dropped to the floored Bosmer.

"Good hit, Aerin," he observed, offering her his hand again. She took it, wincing in pain as bruises on her back gained from being smashed to the floor flared up. "It's a start, at least, though I could have killed you many times over in that session." He attempted a grin. "That said, the same could be said for most of the new recruits I trained. Most of the Kvatch Guard, for that matter. They always said I was good with a blade."

Aerin attempted to reply, but a stabbing pain in her jaw stopped her short. "I think you broke a few of me teeth," she mumbled slowly through a mouthful of blood. Ilend's hand immediately closed over her jaw, and for an instant, tremendous pain seared through her mouth as her shattered teeth put themselves back together. Then the pain was gone, and she was left blinking away the afterimage that the bright blue healing light had burnt onto her eyes.

"No pain, no gain," reminded Ilend, still holding her face in one hand as he stared intently into her eyes. Brilliant blue met brilliant blue, mere inches apart. "I wasn't holding back. Maybe that'll make you think again before leaving yourself open so much."

"In that case, you should have waited before healing her, you soft idiot." The gravelly voice of Lathar brought both heads around; they'd completely forgotten about the presence of the grizzled Redguard drillmaster. Aerin, suddenly feeling somewhat awkward, stepped back from Ilend and started focusing intently on making sure her blade was clean. "No pain teaches like lasting pain," continued Lathar, slowly rising from his stool and walking up to Ilend. The Imperial was a tall man, but Lathar topped him by at least an inch. His Blades armour looked as old and weathered as he did. The Redguard spat, revealing a row of crooked, yellowing teeth, before speaking again.

"That said, you ain't bad at tutoring, Imperial," he admitted. "Where'd you serve? Morrowind?"

"Kvatch Guard, six years," replied Ilend, pride evident in his voice as he drew himself up. "Watch Sergeant for three of those years. Resigned for personal reasons after the battle."

Lathar's eyebrow twitched; evidently, that was as much surprise as he ever showed. "A city guard, eh?" he pondered. "I had you down as a squad leader, myself, in one of the legions keeping peace in the provinces, not one of those pampered peacekeepers in the cities." Lathar spat again. "Still, I guess you do find diamonds in the rough. Keep a solid head on your shoulders, and you'll do good, boy." He left without another word, leaving Ilend's jaw working, attempting to form a response.

"'Diamond in the rough'," he finally growled, angered at the insult to his old, dead comrades. "He wasn't there, the bastard." For a moment, he toyed with the idea of catching up with the Redguard, but thought better of it. They had better things to do. He turned to Aerin, who was rocking on the heels of her feet, arms clasped behind her back. "To the barracks. We're grabbing our gear then finding the captain." The Imperial grabbed his shield from where it leaned against the wall and led the way back to the East Barracks, walking quickly, forcing Aerin to jog merely to keep up.

Within minutes, they were donning their armour and checking weapons. Aerin had been pleasantly surprised to find that the Cloud Ruler armoury had a bountiful stock of arrows. She hadn't actually asked anyone before helping herself, but she figured that if she was on Blades business, then she was entitled to helping herself to a full quiver. She noticed Ilend unsuccessfully attempting to suppress a smirk, but she couldn't be sure if the subject was her bristling quiver or the fact that, after a year of ownership, she still found it difficult to squeeze into her boiled leathers. The sweat that had collected on her body during the training didn't help matters. Still, he hadn't made a lewd comment in recent memory, so that put him on a moral level above most of the men she'd had dealings with in the past.

Locating Captain Steffan didn't take long; his armour stood out from among the standard armour of the Blades around him as he patrolled the front plaza, casting an eye over those training and shooting occasional glances at the sky. The snow had stopped, and the wind had died down a bit, but Aerin still shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her. Steffan pulled his admiring gaze away from the temple's stonework as they approached, looking them up and down as though analysing them.

"The solid melee fighter and the flighty archer," he observed, indicating both of them in turn. "Yeah, you'll do fine. Gorgoth knows what he's on about." The Imperial removed his helmet, revealing close-cropped hair that was more grey than brown, and scratched the crown of his head, starting to walk along the battlements. Ilend and Aerin fell in beside him. "Right, these spies. Jauffre wants em cleared out fast, and it's pretty obvious why. If Dagon gets any knowledge about us, then that's not exactly desirable."

"Damn right," growled Ilend, his fist tightening on his sword hilt. "Point us in the direction of these bastards and we'll make sure they do no more spying. Or breathing."

"That's the spirit, Vonius," replied Steffan, slapping Ilend on the back, steel ringing on steel. He led them both to one of the watch towers. The Blade on duty stepped aside so that they could all stand at the very front of the tower, which gave an excellent view of Bruma and the forest beyond. The grey column of White Gold Tower was barely visible on the horizon, almost indistinguishable from the heavy grey clouds. Steffan pointed at something indistinct at the foot of the mountain.

"After dark, the sentries have sometimes seen two Mythic Dawn agents meeting at that runestone," he told them. Now that he'd identified it, they could see it for what it truly was; an engraved rock, surrounded by several smaller rocks, all black as the night sky, save for the light covering of snow. At this distance, it was impossible to make out the carvings, but it was certainly a landmark. "Never more than two, but we don't know if it's the same ones or not; the distance is too far, and we've never been able to get there in time before." The Knight Captain turned to them. "Make sure you wrap up warm," he said, his voice slightly wry as his gaze lingered on Aerin, who angrily jerked the hood of her cloak further forward. "Fighting wearing bulky clothes is one thing, fighting with frostbite quite another." He saluted and turned to leave. "Kill the bastards," he growled in farewell.

Ilend and Aerin looked down at the runestone for a few more moments, then exchanged glances. "Well, we've got hours before sunset," grunted Ilend as he led them out of the watch tower. "If there's anything I hate more than Dagon right now, it's sitting around and doing nothing. I _hated_ the long night shifts."

Aerin nodded in sympathy. "So do something that's not boredom-inducing," she suggested. A sudden gust of wind ripped her hood back, and she snarled in frustration before dragging it back over her head. "Did ya have anything in mind?"

Ilend put a hand to the back of his neck and rotated his head stiffly. His muscles were getting slightly rigid again. "A massage would be good," he muttered, shooting a sidelong glance at the Bosmer. She rolled her eyes and sighed, muttering something under her breath. "Come on, Aerin. How am I meant to do the heavy killing work with knotted muscles?"

Aerin stopped, folded her arms, and looked up at him critically. "And where are we gonna find the table and privacy needed for that kind of stuff?" she asked him.

Ilend winced. "Bugger. OK, a light version, in the barracks. Come on, better sooner than later." A jerk of his head had her quickly following him, once gain muttering something under her breath. He was somewhat glad that he couldn't hear her.

* * *

Gorgoth kept an eye on the sun as he turned Vorguz off the orange road into a small hollow, mostly clear of trees. The dim ball of orange, partially obscured by clouds, was slowly sinking below the horizon. Masser and Secunda would be visible soon. The Orc intended to rest himself and Vorguz for several hours, then resume his journey to Chorrol well before dawn the next day. If he'd calculated the distance correctly, he'd be reporting at the Guildhall shortly before noon.

Vorguz gently nuzzled Gorgoth's armoured hand as he stripped the stallion of his saddle and loosely tied his reins to a tree. Gorgoth absently stroked the horse's nose in response. It was likely that Vorguz was starting to develop affection for the new Orcish master who seemed to drive him very hard, but treated him very well otherwise. Gorgoth himself felt little for his horse; Vorguz was neither as powerful nor as well-trained as Rauzkh, the warhorse that Gorgoth had ridden for years. For all he knew, Rauzkh was now owned by some other Orc, or languishing in his stable, denied the freedom that the massive stallion had always loved. Gorgoth shook his head; now was no time to be getting nostalgic over a horse. Some day, he would return to Orsinium and reclaim what was his. First, there were other things to consider.

The snow had not reached this far south of Bruma, and Gorgoth had little trouble finding enough dry wood on the ground to start a small fire. Still armoured, he sat cross-legged on the ground, staring into the flames. Almost absent-mindedly, he cast three separate conjuration spells that he would keep constant until he no longer needed his summoned aid. A slight red glow flickered at his fingertips, then fled as two Dremora and a Xivilai stepped out of coalescing fields of dark red shimmering sparks. All three looked around for danger and, seeing none, took a seat without waiting for Gorgoth's greeting.

"What is it this time, Gorgoth?" asked Xilinkar, sliding down against a tree, his armour marking the trunk. "I was preparing for some well-deserved rest after discussing a plan of attack for hours." The Dremora's face showed no sign of fatigue; all Dremora quickly learnt to hide all signs of weakness. "I doubt you're here to gloat about the mess you made of our human allies, but if you are, I don't have the time."

"Camoran leaves a job half-finished and then retreats to his own realm, ignoring the destruction of his army," spat Chaxil, laying his naked claymore across his knees. His contempt for Camoran and the Mythic Dawn was evident. "I'm not one to question Lord Dagon, but I wouldn't trust any mortal with a task that important." The Dremora's eyes flickered to Gorgoth for a second before settling on the fire.

"Do you remember Whiterock?" asked Gorgoth, ignoring their condemning of the Mythic Dawn.

"How could we forget?" grated Medraka, the Xivilai's blue-grey fists clenching into fists. The two Dremora wore similar angry expressions.

"I happen to have fought by the side of the two survivors." That had their eyes focusing on him with undisguised interest. "I can see why you failed. Both are skilled in using their abilities in battle. They helped me carve up the Mythic Dawn." Gorgoth leaned back against the curve of the hollow, straightening his legs and peering up at the darkening sky. "It seems that Dagon has numerous thorns in his side. Do not get overconfident."

Xilinkar was the first to respond. "With you as the enemy's champion, Gorgoth, I will never be overconfident." The Markynaz fingered the hilt of his katana. "May our paths never cross on the field of battle," he muttered. "While it would be an honour to fight you, I doubt the ending would be pleasant for me. I have not fallen in combat for decades; I have no wish to repeat that experience." Xilinkar's lip curled into a snarl.

"Despite reading a lot about the nature of daedra, I find my knowledge lacking about the process of your resurrection," observed Gorgoth, making sure to add a questioning tone to his voice.

Chaxil shook his head. "It is not pleasant," he growled. "The pain of our death and rebirth is more than enough to discourage us from it, if the shame of losing an even fight was not enough." The Kynmarcher leaned back and said no more, watching the firelight flickering in the reflection from his claymore.

Medraka stood abruptly, looking down at Gorgoth and folding his arms. If the Xivilai and the Orc both stood next to each other, they would be of equal height, though Gorgoth was bulkier. "Gorgoth, our victory creeps ever closer. Would you ever be persuaded to serve Lord Dagon? I know he would find a place for you when he conquers Tamriel." Xilinkar shifting uncomfortably and Chaxil's intent study of his claymore spoke of their disapproval of the Xivilai's offer - none of them would use the word 'betrayal' - but Medraka kept his gaze steady, his brilliant yellow eyes meeting Gorgoth's dark amber eyes, neither blinking.

Gorgoth stood slowly. "I swore an oath to protect and to serve the Emperor of Tamriel," he said, his voice flat and emotionless.

Medraka nodded in understanding. The two Dremora got to their feet, Chaxil sheathing his claymore. "For what it's worth, Gorgoth, I'd rather have you on our side than Camoran," muttered Chaxil.

"May our paths never cross on the field of battle," grunted Gorgoth, echoing Xilinkar's earlier wish. He dispelled the magic tying them to Nirn and watched as they dissipated into multitudes of red sparks that floated on the wind for a few seconds before fading from existence. Gorgoth rolled out his bedroll and began removing his armour. Above, Masser and Secunda were visible through a gap in the clouds. Within minutes of the daedra leaving, Gorgoth was descending into sleep.

* * *

"Ilend?"

"What?"

"Why does it have to be so bloody... _cold_?"

A smirk appeared on the Imperial's face as he looked over at his companion. Aerin was wearing a very thick, heavy cloak, but that could not conceal the fact that Bosmer were born for warm, humid climates, not for the cold of Bruma. Ilend himself merely wore a single cloak over his chainmail armour, and while he felt the cold, the biting edge of it stinging his face, it did not bother him much; he'd had to spend many a winter's night on duty in Kvatch with nothing to warm him.

They had waited for sunset and headed down to the runestone that Captain Steffan had pointed out. The Mythic Dawn agents had not been present, so Ilend had decided that the best course of action would be to hide behind a nearby line of bushes and wait for them to show up. Undaunted by the snow lying on the ground, the Imperial had merely crouched, loosened his sword in its scabbard, and settled down to quietly wait for their prey, imitated by his smaller companion, who had Trueshot clutched in one fist with three arrows grounded in the hard earth in front of her, readily available to be used quickly.

"Cold? What cold? It's a bit chilly, sure, but I wouldn't call this bracing atmosphere cold." Sniggering quietly at the dirty look she shot him, Ilend returned to studying the area around the runestone. In the darkness, the sparse covering of the bushes would be more than enough to hide them from someone not using magic, and they gave both watchers a good field of view. Ilend continued, his voice low. "Maybe, one day, we'll be doing this same thing in the jungles of Valenwood or Elsweyr, and our situations can be reversed."

Aerin shook her head, her hood threatening to slide back until she yanked it back up to let only a thin shaft of moonlight illuminate her pale face. "I hope not. This waiting is boring. As well as cold." Though he could now only discern the bottom half of her face, Ilend could tell that she was truly uncomfortable, if her constant shivering hadn't been a big clue. With an overdramatic sigh, he loosened his cloak somewhat and drew her closer to him, putting his arm around her and covering her with most of the left side of his cloak. He'd rather not have the Bosmer's shivering alert the enemy.

Ten slow minutes passed. Dark clouds drifted along overhead, threatening more snow as the light of Masser and Secunda waxed and waned, disappearing and reappearing from behind cloud formations. Ilend was tempted to use his detect life spell, but he knew that he'd see anyone before they entered the range of the spell, and he didn't have the magical power to sustain it for long. Aerin, her head almost touching his ribcage, was breathing slowly and steadily, no longer shivering. The only indication that she was awake was the occasional shifting of her feet and the faint sign of her blue eyes visible under her hood.

It was Aerin, with her more sensitive hearing, who was alerted first to the presence of another person in the area. Her head snapped up, and she scanned the forest and nearby road. Beside her, Ilend grunted and pointed; a single silhouette was emerging from the forest, approaching the runestone. As they moved closer, it became apparent that she was a female Dunmer, with the hood of her dark green cloak thrown back, copper-coloured hair shining in the moonlight. She stopped and folded her arms, staring up at the runestone, an impatient expression evident on her face.

Aerin reached for an arrow, but was stopped by Ilend's hand on her arm. He brought his mouth close to her ear, his breath tickling her cheek before dissipating into the cold night air. "Wait until the other one arrives," he breathed. Aerin nodded and settled back on her heels. Ilend slowly took his shield from his back and strapped it to his left arm, removing his cloak. The cold immediately assaulted his head and cut through his armour better than the finest steel ever could, but he ignored it.

It took another five minutes of tense waiting before a second figure drew closer. A Redguard woman, cloakless but wearing thick linens with a sword belted to her waist, strode off the road as though she owned it and nodded in greeting to the Dunmer.

"You took your time, Jearl," grumbled the Dark Elf, mists of her breath climbing the runestone before fading.

"And we'll waste even more time arguing about it," retorted Jearl, looking up towards Cloud Ruler Temple. Neither woman heard the sound of a bowstring tightening. "Come on, let's go. Maybe we'll get luckier tonight. If we can see a way of getting at the Septim bastard..." her words trailed off, and she started off up the slope.

The Dunmer turned to follow, grumbling under her breath, but both her words and her life were cut short as an arrow slammed into her back with such force that she was thrown into a nearby rock. Jearl spun just in time to see Ilend rising out of the bush, drawing his sword, snow filling the air as he roared a wordless war cry and charged at her. Jearl, stumbling back, barely drew her steel broadsword in time to parry his strike. In response, Ilend bashed her around the face with his shield. The Redguard reeled back, jaw sliced open, teeth shattered, blood filling her mouth. Ilend moved forward and slashed her chest open, cutting her heart in two. Jearl's body collapsed to the ground, blood spreading out around the corpse, staining the snow red.

"All that waiting for less than a minute of action?" moaned Aerin, emerging from the bush, still clutching Trueshot with an arrow nocked. "At least now we can get back ta the fire in Cloud Ruler."

Ilend straightened from checking Jearl's body and headed over to search the Dunmer, his bloodied sword still in hand. "Not yet, Aerin. Never leave a job unfinished." He snorted at her crestfallen expression. "We'll be reporting this to Captain Burd; he knows Bruma better than us or the Blades, and there could be more agents that we don't know about." The Imperial straightened, having retrieved a volume of the _Commentaries_ from the body of the Dunmer. Tossing the book up in the air, he neatly sliced it in two as it reached the zenith of its climb, leaving the two halves of the book, stained with blood, to fall to the ground near the runestone.

"Well, if we're going ta Bruma, let's not waste time," sighed Aerin, putting Trueshot on her back under her cloak and hugging herself to stop her shivering. "At least it'll be warmer where we're going." She looked pleadingly at Ilend, who was picking up his cloak from where he'd dropped it. "Please?"

Ilend swung his cloak around his shoulders and spread his arms wide. "Welcome to guard work, Aerin," he said, amusement evident in his voice. He brushed past her and found his way to the road, taking long, sure-footed strides down the road to Bruma. Aerin rolled her eyes and fell in beside him, cloak swirling and flapping behind her, legs aching with the effort of just keeping up with the long-limbed Imperial without breaking into a jog.

Without horses, it took at least twenty minutes to get to Bruma from the runestone. According to Ilend, horses would have made hiding a lot harder, and Aerin, despite her muted complaints, had been ready to defer to his experience. The gates had been closed at sunset, but the guards, with a little persuasion, opened them just enough for the Imperial and the Bosmer to slip through. They also informed Ilend that, at this time, Captain Burd was likely to be found in the barracks near the castle, talking with the men who'd just finished their shifts. Ilend nodded in thanks and left them to their monotonous night shifts.

The castle was easy to find; it was located at the highest point of the city, and was very close to the North Gate. Similarly, the barracks was easy to find, mainly due to Ilend spending six years of his life living in one. Once inside, Captain Burd was easy to identify; he had an aura of authority and reliability that the best guard captains had. He was a large Nord, taller and bulkier than Ilend, with a bluff, weathered face. Brown hair, cropped short in a military fashion, was going grey at the temples. He was dressed in the standard Bruma guard uniform; heavy chainmail similar to Ilend's with a yellow surcoat worn over it, with the black eagle, the symbol of Bruma, embroidered on the chest. A massive claymore was strapped to his back, and Burd moved with a grace that suggested that he was deadly with both the weapon on his back and just about anything else that he might find.

"Captain Burd, this is an honour," greeted Ilend. Savlian Matius had always spoken of his respect for the Nordic guard captain of Bruma, and the atmosphere in the barracks reflected that; it was a relaxed atmosphere, one of safety, where the guardsmen of Bruma, tired from a long shift, could relax and unwind without fear, even with their captain present. Since his promotion several years ago, Burd had tirelessly worked to improve the Bruma guard and bring crime rates down in his city. His success spoke volumes about the man's drive and determination.

"So it's you that Jauffre assigned to clear out that den of spies?" asked Burd, shaking Ilend's proffered hand. His voice was slow, deep, and calm. His blue eyes wandered over to Aerin, who was tossing back her hood, before settling on Ilend. "It is good that he sent someone competent. You were at Kvatch, I hear?"

Ilend nodded. "I would have stayed, but I couldn't stay still and rebuild while there was revenge to be had," he growled, fists clenching then unclenching.

Burd nodded sagely. "Understandable," he grunted. "Now, about those spies." He jerked his head towards the door, and Ilend and Aerin fell in behind him as he left the barracks, Aerin jerking her hood back up, her mouth twisting with annoyance that they wouldn't be staying in the warm barracks any longer. Fortunately for her, Burd had stopped near a brazier in the courtyard that separated the barracks and the entrance to Castle Bruma. "I don't have much information to go on right now, so I'll ask you to share what you have first."

"About half an hour ago, we found two spies by the runestone and executed them," reported Ilend in a manner-of-fact voice. "A Dunmer whose name we don't know and a Redguard named Jearl. Both women, both unarmoured."

Burd raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Jearl? She'd only come back to town recently, and some of my guards have noticed a stranger in and around her home." The Nord rubbed his chin. "She'd fit the bill, I suppose. And there could still be other cultists around." Ilend nodded in agreement. "Go ahead and search Jearl's house. The sooner the better. We have to make sure that there are no more of these bastards threatening Bruma." A hint of anger entered Burd's voice, as though the Mythic Dawn were insulting him personally by operating in his city. "You'll find her house just behind the chapel. There's a distinctive red lantern handing from the porch. Break the door down if you have to."

A grim smile appeared on Ilend's face as he drew himself up and slammed his fist into his chest in an inch-perfect salute. "These rats will have nowhere left to run, Captain," he intoned. Burd returned the smile and the salute before returning to the barracks.

"Never thought of you as an arse-kisser, Ilend," Aerin said coolly as they started off towards the chapel. Ilend frowned down at her.

"Aerin, it's called respect. Something you seem to lack quite often." Ilend shook his head and quickened his pace. "He's probably the most competent guard captain in Cyrodiil, despite the problems he's had simply by being a Nord. He deserves respect for what he's done." He glanced down at her again; she was almost jogging in order to keep up, but he saw no reason to slow down. "Besides, _that_ back there cannot be defined as arse-kissing. If you ever stuck your nose out of your glorified sandpit and watched the guards in the City for a while, you'd get some experience of it."

"I've _got_ respect, Ilend, I just-"

"Well, start showing it more often." Ilend sharp tone indicated that any further attempts by his Bosmeri companion to speak would be ignored. A stony silence fell as they meandered their way through Bruma towards the chapel, broken only by the crunch of snow under their boots and the boots of the occasional passing inhabitant. Night had long since fallen, and most of the population were at home or in taverns. The silence lasted until they were walking past the entrance to the chapel, the cobbles of the street hidden by the thin layer of snow.

"Ilend..." Aerin took a deep breath, and looked like she had swallowed something unpleasant. "I'm sorry, I spoke without thinking." The words seemed genuine, though she'd evidently had to force them out.

"You could have said that without screwing your face up so you resembled on ogre," replied Ilend, struggling to keep a smirk from appearing on his face as he looked down at the Bosmer from the corner of his eye. He slowed his pace slightly. "I'll bet what used to be a week's pay that an apology from you is rare," he continued. Aerin's mouth worked as she frantically attempted to come up with an answer. "Then again, no-one's ever got off with calling me an arse-kisser so lightly."

"I'm sure," muttered Aerin. Up ahead, a red lantern, unlit, was swinging gently from the porch of a small, thatch-roofed house just behind the chapel. "Guardsmen first," she told Ilend, drawing one of her shortswords.

Ilend drew his own sword, but kept his shield on his back under his cloak. After trying the door, he grunted in frustration: it was locked, as expected. The Imperial took several steps back, and, as Aerin looked on, wearing a smirk, he charged at the door, shoulder first. The flimsy lock shattered and Ilend's momentum carried him through the doorway as the door flew open. He dived into a forward roll, rose to his feet, and turned in all directions at once, scanning the single room of the house. It was empty, apart from Aerin following him, drawing the door shut behind her. Oddly, two lamps had been left on; Jearl probably hadn't intended to come back any time soon, and Ilend was at a loss as to why she'd risk a fire just to keep the place lit.

"Ransack the place," Ilend instructed. "Leave no stone unturned; there might be papers or orders telling us something. Anything like that is useful." Following his own advice, he started tearing out drawers with more far more force than necessary, tossing clothes onto the floor, hunting for something, anything. Aerin was less destructive but no less thorough, even crawling under the bed to look for small niches.

After several minutes, Ilend had singlehandedly managed to destroy most of the house, even upending the table, but they had found nothing. Then he ripped up the carpet. Underneath was a wooden trapdoor, incongruous against the stone slabs that made up the rest of the floor. "Looks like we might have a winner," muttered the Imperial, gesturing for Aerin to join him. He heaved the trapdoor up – it was unlocked – and they peered down into the darkness below.

"I can't see anything," frowned Aerin. "If there happens ta be an ambush down there, you're the best equipped ta deal with it, so..." Ilend was already climbing down the ladder. After a few seconds, his footsteps were ringing on what sounded like a stone floor, fading as he fumbled around in darkness. A period of silence followed, and Aerin was ready to call out, or to follow him, when light flared at the bottom of the ladder.

"It's clear," called Ilend, prompting Aerin to scuttle down the ladder. The Imperial was standing at a table in a small cavern, the light emanating from a small lantern that he'd found and lit. On the table were a handful of books, a dagger, and a note. Aerin hurried over to peer around his arm and read it.

"Well, this is what we came for," declared Ilend, folding up the note and slipping it under his armour before Aerin had a chance to finish it. "Grim reading, but at least we've got some warning." Frowning as he digested the contents of the letter, he turned to the ladder just in time to see a mace flashing towards his face. Finely honed reflexes kicked in, and he flung himself backwards. The mace, instead of hitting his temple, merely smashed into his jaw, sending him sprawling back across the table, dazed, with pain flaring in his jaw.

The Mythic Dawn agent, in full armour, then turned his attention to Aerin, who'd been knocked off balance by Ilend as he fell. Fumbling with her sword hilt, which had become entangled in her cloak, the Bosmer barely drew it in time to block the full-armed strike of the cultist. His strength and skill were evident; the blow tore the hilt out of Aerin's grasp and her sword went flying across the room into one of the cavern walls. Shaken by the force of the hit, she had no time to even put her hand to her spare blade; the cultist's hand was at her throat, picking her up and throwing her to the ground with enough force to stun her.

Bellowing a war cry, Ilend leapt at the cultist, sword darting for his armpit. The Nord – he had to be a Nord, or a Redguard, with that bulk – spun and deflected the blow with his mace, attempting to grab Ilend's broken jaw. Ilend stepped back and slashed at the cultist's shoulder. The Nord spun once again, the slash grazing his breastplate but not penetrating. The Imperial stepped forward and aimed a powerful left hook at his opponent's face. Fighting with nothing in his off hand was not a speciality of Ilend's, and the Nord batted his hand aside and aimed a mace slash at Ilend's leg. The Imperial backpedalled, and the Nord, moving to follow him, abruptly roared in agony, his powerful voice echoing throughout the cavern. He fell to the ground, still clutching his mace, fury evident in his eyes. His right hamstring had been neatly severed by Aerin, who was unsteadily rising to her feet, holding her bloodied blade ready for another attack.

Ilend healed his broken jaw and kicked the Nord's mace away, malice in his eyes as he glared down at the defeated cultist. "I never thought I'd get one of you bastards alive," he snarled. The eyes behind the mask glared back at him, fearless. "Nice cut, Aerin," Ilend said, sparing a glance for Aerin, who'd recovered her other blade from where it had fallen. "Going for the hamstrings is a good tactic."

With a bellow of anger, the Nord launched himself at Aerin's feet, only to be kicked in the face by the Bosmer, who stepped back cautiously. Ilend planted a boot on the Nord's back, pinning him in place. "Bastard," spat Aerin, kneeling and massaging her right foot. "Those masks are bloody hard. I hate stubbing my toe..."

"Live with it," grunted Ilend, attempting to recall exactly how to cast a Dispel spell. He gave up; Martin had said that it was complex magic, beyond Ilend's magical capabilities of the time, when he'd first asked how to cast it. A live cultist, however, was too good an opportunity to pass up; getting him to Cloud Ruler Temple would be the hardest part.

The Nord appeared to make his own decision. He twisted and sent a small, weak fireball directly at Ilend's face. That ball of fire was probably the extent of his magical ability – the summoning spell for their mace and armour seemed different, somehow – but it was enough to make Ilend stumble back. The cultist leapt to his feet, stumbling slightly, before raising his hand to summon a new mace. Before he could complete the spell, Aerin's blade neatly sliced his head in two. Sparks enveloped the crumpling agent's body, fading to reveal a Nord taller than Burd, and just as bulky.

Ilend cursed. "Fucker didn't want to give up," he growled, ignoring the fact that, if he were in the Nord's position, he'd do exactly the same thing. He aimed a savage kick at the cultist's ribs before moving back over to the ladder and peering up at the house above. "There could be others up there. Come up if I give the all-clear." Without waiting for a response, he scrambled up the ladder, hauling himself quickly into the room above with sword at the ready. There was no need; the door was closed, and the house was empty.

"It's clear," he called down to Aerin. He moved over to the door and swung it open as she joined him. The sudden gust of wind tearing into the room threatened to rip the door from his hands. Snow drifted through the doorway, settling on the stone floor. Aerin shivered and clutched her cloak tighter around her. "Comfort yourself with images of a roaring fire," advised Ilend as he pulled up the hood of his cloak and led the way out of Jearl's house.

They quickly hurried back to the Guard barracks and made their report to Captain Burd; his bushy eyebrows lifting in surprise as they reported the Nord cultist, but then nodded calmly and thanked them for clearing up what he called 'a bad headache'. Ilend was withholding the revelation of the letter in his pocket until he could deliver it to Jauffre; there was no need to panic the Bruma Guard yet. By that time, the snow was lying thick on the ground, and even Ilend saw the sense of staying in Bruma for the night; the walk back up to Cloud Ruler Temple would almost definitely be too much for Aerin. They found the nearest tavern and stumbled in.

Predictably, it was packed; travellers had most likely taken one look at the clouds and decided to stay in Bruma and start their journey in better conditions. The tavern wasn't a good one, that much was evident – the floor and tables were dirty, and the ale was of the cheapest kind – but it was warm and it had dry beds out of the cold. For many, that would be enough. Ignoring the various noisy patrons at almost every table in the small common room, Ilend and Aerin walked over to the bar, Ilend shrugging off his cloak.

The proprietor was a middle-aged Nord, slightly overweight, but with a weighing gaze, and he moved with a certainty that suggested that he could use the cudgel he almost definitely kept under the bar. Ilend leaned on the bar, subtly moving his sword hilt out of his ribs. "How much for two rooms?" he asked, pointedly not looking at Aerin. After his last Fighter's Guild contract, he had plenty of gold; no need to be stingy in not paying for an extra room.

"Two rooms?" snorted the innkeeper? "Well, if you pay a premium, I could kick the resident drunkard out of a cubbyhole upstairs. Otherwise, we're full." He grimaced. "Besides, it ain't like a posh swanky inn like you Imperials are used to," he continued, leaning heavily on the bar. "Best we got is bedrolls. Live with it."

Aerin turned to leave, but Ilend caught her arm and pointed out of the window. The falling snow had become a blizzard. Turning back to the proprietor, the Imperial managed to ignore his stale breath. "How much?" he asked, taking his wallet from where it hung from his belt. He'd paid good money for it, several years ago, but the enchantment was worth it.

"Twenty drakes."

Ilend raised an eyebrow at the high price, but shoved the coins over the bar without hesitation. The Nord gathered them up with rapidity – Ilend had yet to meet an innkeeper who didn't take their money quickly – and handed him a key. "Third door on the left, up the stairs," he grunted. "Might be a bit small for two, but you'll manage." The Nord directed a quick glance at Aerin, which swiftly became a leer, until Ilend gave him a pointed glance. Aerin rolled her eyes and started off towards the stairs near the back of the common room.

Ilend caught up with her, armour rattling slightly. "You don't want a beer?" he asked waving in the direction of the bar.

She grunted. "And share a crowded common room with burly, stinking Nords who look worse than your average pub patrons in the City? No way, Ilend. Besides, I'm tired."

Ilend smiled up at her back as she ascended the stairs and shook his head. The fight in Jearl's house hadn't been particularly exerting, but he hadn't been this cold for a while, and that made him eager for what would hopefully be a passable bedroll. Aerin had shrugged her cloak off and was standing by the third door on the left, foot tapping impatiently. Ilend rammed the key into the lock, twisted it, ignoring the squeal of tortured metal, and shoved the door open.

The innkeeper's description of the room as a 'cubbyhole' was generous. It was tiny enough for Ilend to touch both walls at once without stretching his arms too much. Most of the space was taken up by a bedroll that seemed large in proportion to the size of the room. The only other object present was a dim lantern burning low on the cold stone floor. Ilend stepped back to let Aerin walk in first, suppressing a smirk at her grimace.

"Well, Aerin, you have a choice," he commented. "You can try to walk up to Cloud Ruler Temple in a blizzard, or you can share a bedroll with a large, dirty, unshaven, smelly ex-guardsman who hasn't had a bath since before the Battle of Kvatch." There was no possibility of one of them sleeping on the floor; the bedroll filled most of the space. And Ilend doubted the innkeeper would appreciate one of them sleeping in the common room.

Aerin groaned. "Am I in Oblivion?" she asked sarcastically, tossing her cloak to the floor.

This time, Ilend didn't suppress his laugh. "Feels more like Aetherius to me," he replied, still laughing as his cloak joined hers on the floor.

* * *

**A/N: Just in case you need a reminder, you writing a review will take a lot less time than it took me to write this chapter. Now get reviewing, they can only help me.**


	21. Death and Undeath

**A/N: I think apologies are in order for the slow uploading of this chapter. While I could blame January exams (FOUR of them) and a weekend away from home, I won't; I could have had this chapter up long before this had I been motivated enough. I'm just too lazy. Anyhow, at the time of writing, Chapter 20 has seven reviews. More are always welcome...**

**Random reader: While I've never heard of most of the mods on your list, I do run Mighty Magick and Oscuro's Oblivion Overhaul (OOO) 1.33, which is one of the best mods ever made, in my opinion. And it's also the reason why I'm getting an entire new PC for Skyrim instead of turning to my PS3; the Elder Scrolls were made for PCs, not some crappy consule exports. Also, about those series of small chapters: I'd prefer to do all that in ONE chapter. My personal style.**

**Underpaid Critic: Well, it's logical that Camoran would 'make Gorgoth bleed'. He's a character that has to be fought, and happens to be pretty damn powerful. Needless to say, Gorgoth will spend quite a lot of time thinking up a strategy for the rematch.**

**Elder: Thanks for the review, though I'll admit to not having heard of Kurt Vonnegut before you mentioned him. Upon reading his wikipedia article, I find myself nodding and agreeing with most of his eight rules.**

**Dragonborn: Original daedra? I doubt I'd be as good as making enemies as Bethesda, so I'll leave that to them. I have, however, incorporated some enemies found only in mods (See Seducers).**

**Right, that's it from me. REMEMBER TO LEAVE A REVIEW!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-one: Death and Undeath**

The citizens of Bruma woke to find the morning sun shining down upon the snow covering their city. The snows had come early this year, and clouds on the horizon to the north threatened more. But, for now, the wind had dropped and the sun was bright. The snow was already being trampled into mud and ice by the population. Snow-covered, shivering guards on the night watch were being relieved by their comrades, and were eager to retreat to the barracks to warm up. Business as usual for Bruma.

It was the sunlight filtering through the room's tiny window that woke Aerin. She blinked several times, her eyes adjusting to the light, then swept her unbound hair – she never slept with it in a ponytail – out of her face. Her right cheek was lying on something furry, and she somewhat sheepishly edged away from Ilend's bare torso, the thick, curled brown hair creeping over his chest like patchy moss on a boulder. Rammed up against the wall due to the tiny space available, he was evidently still asleep, and didn't wake when Aerin slowly extricated herself from the blankets they'd shared.

Ignoring the cold attempting to cool her warm, exposed skin – it had been too hot under those blankets to wear anything more than her underwear – Aerin settled back on her heels, unwilling to pass up the chance to watch Ilend unobserved. It wasn't something she got to do often; he was normally awake and armoured. When she'd first met him, it had been in the planes of Oblivion, and he'd been battered, bruised, tired, and scarred by relentless battle. Now, with his black hair spilling over his face, his breathing deep and steady, he looked at peace. The scars marring his muscled torso and thick arms, picked up over the years, were a constant reminder of his occupation, but they looked right on him, somehow.

"You've been staring at me for two minutes, so there must be something you like," grunted Ilend. He'd had his eyes open as soon as Aerin woke, but had kept them almost shut. Now he opened them fully, an insufferable smirk creeping onto his face as she blushed.

"Hey, you must have been looking me over as well," she defended, standing straight as he rose to his feet. To her regret, he'd kept his trousers on.

Ilend shook his head. "Nope, I was watching you watching me. You started it." He stretched, bones creaking, and walked over to the window, looking out. "Looks like the weather's cleared up," he observed.

Aerin sighed and started rummaging around in the pile of clothes for her trousers. "You know, if my father knew that I'd shared a bed with an _Imperial_ without marrying him, he'd kill me, then drag me back from Oblivion just to kill me again." She shook her head and smirked.

Ilend grunted. "Seems a bit harsh," he said. "It's not like we had-"

"I know, I know, but he's conservative like that." Aerin snorted. "Control freak," she muttered under her breath, squeezing into her tight trousers.

Ilend turned from the window and yawned before dropping to one knee and searching for his shirt. It reeked of sweat, but it was better than going naked under his armour. He'd tried that once, long ago, and it had taken several days for his skin to heal. That was before he'd been introduced to magic. He shuddered at the mere memory.

Fiddling with her cuirass straps, Aerin stepped over to the window, looked out, and recoiled. "I've never seen so much snow in my life," she murmured, eyes wide. Ilend snorted.

"Imagine what it's like when winter actually gets here," he grunted, tightening the straps on his cuirass until he was sure it was on properly. "Then again, I've never been in Bruma for the winter. Should be fun." He started looking for his gauntlets, ignoring Aerin's incredulous look. "Are you going to get dressed or stand there gawking at some frozen rain?" His words spurred her back into action.

Within minutes, they were walking down the stairs and entering the common room, which was almost empty. They hadn't exactly risen early. The Nord innkeeper nodded to Ilend and leered at Aerin, who was still tying most of her hair up in its usual ponytail. Ilend paused to don his cloak and swung open the door, stepping out into the snow that was lying thick on the cobblestones. He waited for Aerin to join him, stepping somewhat cautiously, and started off towards the North Gate. "The sooner we get this letter to Jauffre, the better," he said.

"About that... I never finished reading it."

Ilend's mouth drew down, his expression grim. "It's orders. The Mythic Dawn plan to open a Great Gate outside Bruma and make it another Kvatch."

Aerin stumbled and would have fallen if Ilend hadn't caught her arm. "You mean ta say ya knew this city is going ta get assaulted... and ya didn't tell Burd? Are you crazy?"

"I'm not used to this Blades business lark, believe it or not," growled Ilend. "I'm working for Jauffre, not Burd. Besides, Burd will know soon enough." He didn't look all that comfortable with his decision; confidential Blades business was one thing, but he felt that he was betraying his old values as a guard. Shaking his head, he stepped up the pace. "Come on. There'll be a warm fire in Cloud Ruler. We might even get paid."

* * *

Modryn Oreyn was in a foul mood. That was happening more than usual recently, and he didn't like it. The Dunmer was currently occupied with outfitting his stocky frame in a suit of custom-made ebony armour, made in Morrowind nearly five years ago. It had cost a small fortune, but over his twelve decades of life, Modryn had accumulated vast amounts of gold, and the armour was more than worth it if it kept him alive for another twelve decades. The mace swinging from his sword belt was of daedric origin, and the wicked spikes and deadly flanges were just as battle-ready after eight years of use as they had been when he first came into possession of the weapon. The dark red of the daedric steel always seemed eager to be splattered with blood, and at the moment, Modryn was more than willing to satisfy it.

The sound of the door to the guildhall swinging shut with a loud crash brought a frown to Modryn's face. The Guard had already been in five minutes ago telling him to hurry up, as if the threat of a Daedric invasion wasn't enough to hurry the Dunmer. Apparently, the Guard was containing the daedric assault for now, but more fighters were always helpful, and the Chorrol branch of the Fighter's Guild, as the headquarters of the Cyrodiil branch, was well-manned.

A hammering sound came at the Champion's door, and he bit back a sharp retort. Instead, ramming his helmet onto his head, he strode over to the door and swung it open. "Tell that bloody impatient guardsman that we're ready," he growled at Lum gro-Baroth. The large Orc had donned his massive suit of steel plate armour, and his warhammer was ready for use, but he seemed disappointed. Odd; Modryn assumed that he and his brother Kurz would be eager to leap into the fray.

"Oreyn, the Gate is _closed_," he reported, in a tone of voice that sounded very close to whining. Whining did not suit any Orc, let alone one as bloodthirsty and brutal as Lum. "The Guard says an Orc appeared, went in, and closed it. Said he didn't even want help." The Swordsman turned and traipsed back down the stairs.

Modryn scratched his cheek, then tore his helmet off, angrily considering throwing it against the wall before carefully placing it back on its stand. The Guard had roused him from his sleep early, had forced him to don his full suit of armour, only for him to not be _needed_? The Dunmer snorted and strode out of the small room he had been allotted in the Guildhall. He used it sometimes when he was too tired from sparring –which wasn't often – to walk back to his house near the walls.

The Dark Elf reached the hallway just as the double doors swung open again. A huge Orc walked in, ducking under the doorway then straightening, looking down at Modryn with a cold, calculating gaze. Judging from the way he moved, he knew how to use the massive silver-capped mace at his hip, and his battered plate armour spoke of valuable battle experience, some of it recent. The pair of black war braids hanging to his waist suggested that he was from Orsinium, though the fashion was not unique to the home of the Orcs. What surprised Modryn most, however, was the stiff salute: a fist to the heart and a nod of the head. Those cold amber eyes never changed, but the massive warrior spoke respectfully. "Journeyman Gorgoth gro-Kharz reporting. I was told to report to Chorrol for duties." His voice was deep enough to make some of the floorboards vibrate. Lum, from where he was sitting at the table eating breakfast, gave Gorgoth a nod in greeting.

Modryn raised his eyebrows and peered up at the Orc, studying him. He looked young – thirty at most – but those eyes held the weight of years of wisdom. A stray smear of blood was just visible below a pointed green ear. It was not his. "It was you who just closed the bloody Oblivion Gate, wasn't it?" grated Oreyn.

Gorgoth returned Modryn's studying of him with a level gaze. "Yes," he confirmed.

Modryn looked him up and down. "How the _fuck_ are you still only a Journeyman?" he asked.

"I have only been in the Guild for a week. I am only a recent arrival in Cyrodiil."

Modryn jerked his head up the stairs. "Guildmaster Donton awaits you in her office. Top floor." Gorgoth nodded and moved past the Dunmer, who turned to watch the Orc ascend the stairs, which creaked under his passage. "I'll be damned if that's not the Hero of Kvatch," he muttered under his breath as he turned to join Lum in eating breakfast.

"Well, if he is, isn't that a good thing?" asked Sabine Laul brightly as she joined them at the table. The Breton had evidently been up for hours, judging by the burn marks on her smith's apron. She always was up early; the large Guild population in Chorrol gave her a lot of work. "Having an effective warrior in the Guild is always a good thing, in my opinion." Sabine always did have a refreshingly simple, idealistic view on life. Then again, she didn't do much fighting.

"As long as he doesn't have a swelled cranium and follows orders well enough, then I don't have a problem, no," grunted Modryn. Over the years, his natural impatience meant that he had mastered talking while chewing a full mouthful of bacon. Upstairs, Gorgoth's deep voice was reverberating around the building, though Modryn could only make out a low rumble; the words were indistinct. No doubt Vilena Donton was giving the Orc her usual lecture for new up-and-coming Guildsmen.

"He looked like he could handle himself, at least," rumbled Lum, rising from the table and heading towards the basement, no doubt ready to begin training two of the newest recruits how to use a shield without dropping it on their foot.

Minutes later, the staircase started creaking and groaning once again as Gorgoth descended. He looked around and approached Modryn, who sighed and stood slowly. He knew what was coming. "I was told to report to you for duties, Champion Oreyn," announced the Orc, stopping and standing with his back stiff. Modryn was unsure if he was standing to attention, or whether that was just how he normally stood.

"First of all, drop the rank, we're not that formal in the Guild," growled Oreyn, finishing his sausage and throwing down his knife. Gorgoth's face might as well have been hewn from granite for all the emotion it was showing. Odd for an Orc. Normally, Modryn could read Lum and Kurz, and most other Orcs, easily. "Now, you might be the Hero of Kvatch and all, but that doesn't give you the right to go gallivanting off and do whatever you bloody well want when the mood takes you. I give you orders, you follow them, understood?"

"I am a Knight Brother of the Blades," responded Gorgoth. Modryn had already suspected that since noticing the Akaviri dai-katana on his back. "My duties for the Emperor will take precedence over contract work." He paused. "Otherwise, I would never even think of shirking my duties. It would be shameful to leave a task unfinished when it would be within my power to finish it."

Modryn snorted. "Words, Orc. Give me results, and I'll believe you. And, as there is no Emperor right now, your services should be available most of the time." Gorgoth's eyebrow twitched, but he remained silent. "For now, I have an assignment. A nice, simple one." The Dunmer's mouth twisted. "A new recruit – a worthless one, by the looks of it – has defaulted on a contract in Skingrad." Modryn spat, his saliva spreading over the worn floorboards of the hall. Sabine frowned, but held her tongue. Wise.

Gorgoth's lip had curled slightly, exposing even more of his impressive teeth. Modryn continued. "His name is Maglir, a Bosmer. Find him, resolve the situation, and get back to me." Gorgoth nodded, but didn't move, apparently awaiting further instructions. Modryn frowned. "Well, get moving, then," he barked. "Don't stand there staring at me like a brainless ogre when there's work to be done. Piss off, Journeyman!" The Dunmer turned on his heel and headed for the stairs.

Vilena had been watching, her arms folded, head tilted to one side. Her age was starting to tell through her iron-grey hair and wrinkled skin, but the Guildmaster's deep brown eyes were alert and thoughtful as she watched the doors close behind Gorgoth. "What do you think?" she asked Modryn.

The Dark Elf rubbed his chin. "He's a good warrior if he can close an Oblivion Gate by himself," he muttered. "But we both know that prowess is nothing if he's too stupid to back it up. But I think he's got potential." The memory of those cold, watchful eyes and the experience they hinted at refused to dislodge itself from Modryn's mind. "He's seen battle, that one, and lots of it."

Vilena nodded and walked back up the stairs to her office, leaving Modryn with nothing to do. He shook himself and went off to find a new recruit to shout at.

* * *

It took Saliith two days to reach the Imperial City, and the sun was halfway through its descent to the horizon when he walked into the Arena District. The mere sight of the massive Arena was enough to halt him. Looking towards the training area where he and Branwen had once sparred so much, he sighed, shoulders lumping. A determined expression appeared on his face, and he straightened and loosened his shortswords in their scabbards. On the way to the Arena, he'd made sure to restock with throwing knives, which made a row long the top of his back, within easy reach. Ignoring Agronak's fan lurking in a nearby bush, the Argonian walked over to the entrance.

A sharp intake of breath indicated that Hundolin had never expected to see him again; his opinion would likely be shared by most of the gladiators down below in the Bloodworks. Ignoring the Bosmer, Saliith took one last look around the Arena grounds, then pushed open the door to the Bloodworks and entered.

He walked quickly, and he was halfway to Owyn when the first gladiators noticed him and stopped sparring. Apparently, his fight with Branwen had been big news for the gladiators. Most eyes turned to the Argonian as he approached Owyn, who took one look at Saliith and drew himself to his full height, one hand resting casually on his scimitar. Activity in the area immediately surrounding the Blademaster ceased entirely as Saliith stopped, his face inches from Owyn's. Neither spoke.

Saliith's mind was racing as all his thinking over the past week dissolved into nothing as he finally faced the man responsible for the death of Branwen. Sheer, animal rage attempted to overpower him, but he forced it down. If he was ever going to attack Owyn, it would be in the Arena, in a duel to the death. He thought about throwing down the gauntlet to avenge Branwen there and then, but stopped himself; despite his meteoric rise through the ranks, he was still young – only twenty-two – and still had lessons to learn, whereas Owyn had decades of experience while still being in his prime. While joining Branwen in Aetherius didn't seem so bad, Saliith didn't want to throw away his life needlessly. Not while there was so much to do in the world.

"Get me a battle," he snarled, his voice so quiet that anyone other than Owyn would have problems hearing.

The Redguard gave a short nod. "Get yourself into a raiment," he responded, not moving or looking away from Saliith. They both knew what to do, but neither moved, none willing to be the first to look away. After a minute's standoff, Owyn growled something about fading light and moved off to find a Blue Team gladiator. Saliith turned and walked over to the raiment locker.

Minutes later, the Argonian was walking down the long tunnel to the Arena. The bloodied sands of the Arena cooled his webbed feet. He'd left his armour on a pile on one of the bedrolls, and given a trusted Argonian Bloodletter five drakes to guard it. Images of Branwen flickered before his eyes, but he banished them; Owyn would have found him a challenging battle, and he needed to stay focused. He loosened his shortswords in their scabbards and ran a hand over his throwing knives.

Reaching the Yellow Team cage, Saliith stared across the Arena at his opponent. It was a large, battle-scarred Orc, clad in a heavy raiment and wielding one of the more outlandish weapons seen in the Bloodworks: a massive steel double axe. A deadly double-crescent axe head at each end of a six-foot steel pole made a deadly weapon that was equally at home hewing down enemies by the dozen or focusing on separating a single opponent from his limbs. The announcer was bellowing out his usual speech, apparently not noticed that no-one was listening; everyone in the substantial crowd was eagerly anticipating the moment the gates slammed down into their sheathes.

The announcer finished and flopped down in his chair, calling for water to soothe his throat. As the gates rattled down into the earth, both Saliith and his opponent rushed out of their respective cages, charging towards each other. The audience held its breath in anticipation of the clash in the centre of the Arena. Saliith started feinting left and right, twitching his tail, hoping to throw the Orc off balance or confuse him. His opponent, however, was clearly an experienced gladiator, and was focused only on the movements that mattered.

Saliith drew one of his shortswords, the other hand groping for a throwing knife. It flashed in the sunlight as it streaked towards the Orc's throat. He barely slowed down as he twisted slightly, the knife glancing off his heavy raiment. Saliith cursed and went in low, putting all his momentum into a sliding tackle, his feet aimed at the Blue team gladiator's ankles. Not expecting such a radical move, the Orc collapsed. As Saliith flipped to his feet, wincing at the pain in his feet, the crowd roared their approval.

His opponent moved with a speed that belied his bulk. As Saliith swung both his blades at his neck, the Orc rolled out of danger and got to his feet quickly, just in time to parry another attack. Moving onto the offensive, he roared a wordless cry of rage as his double axe met empty air, Saliith dancing out of danger. The Orc continued onward, the sheer reach of his deadly weapon keeping Saliith on the retreat. Attempting to sidestep around the Orc meant exposing himself to the far axe head. He went for another unexpected move and threw both his shortswords at his opponent.

The shortswords were not perfectly weighted for throwing like his knives, but they did the job well enough. Saliith had aimed well; the Orc managed to dodge one, but put himself in the path of another, grimacing in agony as it pierced his right forearm. He removed his left hand from his axe to dislodge the blade, and Saliith struck, a knife in each hand. Cursing, the Orc fell back, ignoring the blade sticking out of his forearm and swinging his axe. The pole knocked Saliith off balance, but one of his knives found its target and embedded itself in the Orc's left leg. He skipped back and drew two more knives.

"Stop being a crowd-pleaser and fight me properly," growled the Orc, desperation evident in his gruff voice. Sweat was dripping down his face and chest, mixing with the blood running from the steel of Saliith's weapons. The gladiator was crippled; his left leg couldn't take his full weight, and his right arm was hampered. However, he wasn't about to roll over and meekly accept death; Saliith had never met a placid Orc who was willing to die easily. The Blue team gladiator planted his feet and waited.

Saliith darted in to the right, ducking under the upper axe head and slashing at the Orc's left hamstring. He felt the knife blade slice through the tendons and muscle, and heard the Orc groan in pain, stumbling, his leg buckling. Then the other axe head completed its arc and tore through Saliith's raiment, slicing his ribcage open, passing mere inches from his heart. The Argonian groaned and crawled backwards until he collapsed onto his back, the agony threatening to overwhelm him. His opponent attempted to finish the job, but his left leg collapsed and sent him to one knee.

Drawing quick, shuddering breaths, Saliith moved his hand to the massive gash along his left side. He'd been sliced open from armpit to thigh, like a gutted fish. His blood was leaking out onto the sands, a red stain slowly spreading over the ground. He could sense that audience holding its breath as the Orc dragged himself to his feet and started towards the downed Argonian, dragging his left leg behind him.

Anger bubbled up in Saliith's chest. The Arena had claimed many good lives over the years. He knew of several himself, their names floating into his hazy mind: Claudius Istel, a one-time paladin who had retired into the Arena; Rhesus, a Redguard warrior with an impeccable sense of honour; Branwen... his friend. His comrade. The woman who he would quite happily have shared his life with, their joint quest for glory having given them bonds that had run far deeper than their shallow objectives, now dead by his own hand. A snarl appeared on the Argonian's face. _In time, I will join them_, he told himself. _But not yet. There is still work to be done._ His promise of aid to Gorgoth would be worthless if he died. With a roar, he forced himself upright.

The Orc had been raising his double axe in preparation for a slow chop down at Saliith's torso; he had not expected the Argonian to flip to his feet, throwing knives flashing from his fingers. He barely had time to regret not moving faster before both blades buried themselves deep in his chest. The gladiator fell, axe rolling away from him, his impact sending up clouds of sand. Saliith staggered, struggling to hold himself upright. He could feel his strength draining out of him. With one hand desperately attempting to hold himself together, the Argonian quickly gathered his shortswords and left the Arena to the exultation of the crowd. He left his throwing knives where they lay. They were not worth his life.

Never before had the Basin of Renewal been so welcoming to Saliith. He gratefully submerged himself in the magical waters, sighing in relief as the gash in his side closed up, the blood washing away in the water. The Argonian was tempted to stay under for longer, but the brutal realities of the world outside would remain unchanged. He grunted and hauled himself out of the Basin, water dripping onto the blood. His raiment was scarred; he'd have to get a new one for his next battle.

Owyn walked up to him and threw him a heavy bag of gold. Without wasting another second, the Blademaster turned and stomped off in the opposite direction. Saliith grunted and walked over to where his armour was being guarded. Throwing a handful of gold to the helpful Argonian Bloodletter, Saliith proceeded to tear off his raiment and don his scale armour. It was too late in the day to fit in another battle, and his stomach demanded attention. The fight had drained him, and he was hungry. Threading his way through the Bloodworks, Saliith ascended from the pits and emerged into the dusk, turning in the direction of the Market District.

* * *

Gnaeus Magnus was bored.

He would rather fall on his own sword than admit it, but the action he'd seen ever since leaving Whiterock had awakened the adventurer in him, much to his despair. Upon his first coming to Cloud Ruler Temple, he'd wanted nothing more than to sit in a comfortable chair by the fire with a good book, or peace and quiet to think. Now, the old Imperial's feet were itching. He'd envied Ilend and Aerin as they'd told him of their exploits in bringing down the Mythic Dawn's spies, for which Jauffre had paid them fairly well. He grunted in frustration as he realised that he'd spent the last twenty minutes staring at a page of _The Black Arts on Trial_ – a futile attempt to get up to speed on the events of the past thirty-five years – and not read a word. Gnaeus sighed and slowly stood, waiting to hear his knees creak. They didn't, and the seventy-eight year-old Imperial was satisfied that arthritis had yet to rear its ugly head.

Walking through from the Great Hall to Cloud Ruler's extensive library, Gnaeus slid the book back into position on the shelf he'd taken it from. He raised a grey eyebrow as Selene slipped in, grabbed a book on Daedric script, and scuttled out again in the direction of the royal chambers. If Gnaeus hadn't known that there was important translation work going on, he'd have suspected that Selene was trying very hard to trip Martin into his own bed. Maybe she was anyway. The old Imperial, since he'd left Whiterock, had sometimes come to regard Selene, the only other survivor, as a somewhat irritable, irreverent, undignified, disrespectful, illegitimate granddaughter that he grudgingly respected somewhat. Sometimes.

The Imperial turned and found his way outside. Ignoring the cold, biting wind and the snow crunching under his boots, he walked over to the outer wall and leaned on it. The sky was clear, the sun shining down on a countryside blanketed in white. Gnaeus could only recall two winters when it had snowed on Whiterock; during his stay there, it had probably received less snow than what had dropped on the Temple last night. The wind whipped at his face, chilling his bald head, but he ignored it. Twenty years of war, then thirty-five years clinging to a rock hardened a man, both visibly and under the surface.

A throat being cleared right behind him snapped Gnaeus's head round. A Breton of average height and build was staring up at him, arms folded, a searching expression on her pale, well-formed face. A few strands of dark brown hair escaped from under her helmet, and her cloak flapped freely, leaving the hilt of her katana free for use. "What?" snapped Gnaeus. He never liked having his thoughts interrupted.

"You are one of the companions of that Orc, yes?" asked the Breton, her voice quite low, and slightly accented. Gnaeus recognised a regional accent of High Rock, but couldn't place it. The amount of contempt and hatred she placed on the word 'Orc' confirmed his suspicion that she was High Rock born-and-bred. Gnaeus inwardly groaned. He hated politics, and Bretons could see it in soup.

"So what if I am?" he growled. "And who's asking?" It was hard to analyse her frame and muscle under her Blades armour, but every Blade had sufficient training to make themselves a weapon if need be. That face was young, however; she couldn't be more than twenty-two at the most. Gnaeus had been killing before her mother had been born. He was reassured by the knowledge that he could have his broadsword drawn within a second. His spry frame was fully up to the task of prancing around on a freezing fortress wall, crossing blades with one of the Emperor's sworn bodyguards.

Ignoring his question and evasion, she took a step closer. He grey eyes, burning with a feverish intensity, bored into his skull. "You don't know who you're blindly following, do you?" she hissed, in a voice so low that he had to strain to catch the words. "Tell me, Imperial-" Gnaeus cut her off.

"I think you'll find both my eyes work very well, girl," he barked. "And if all you're prepared to do is to drop cryptic hints, piss off and leave an old man to his thoughts. Shoo!" He spun on his heel and folded his arms, resolutely staring into the wind until his eyes watered.

Snow crunched behind him, and Gnaeus tensed, but before the Breton could move a voice boomed through the air. "Callia! Get back to your bloody post, woman! This fortress won't watch itself!" Gnaeus could sense Callia snapping to attention and rigidly turning and stalking off to the watch tower, Captain Steffan's eyes attempting to burn a hole in her back. The Knight Captain turned his gaze to Gnaeus for a second, then shook his head, growled something under his breath, and stomped off to find a brazier.

Gnaeus stroked his close-trimmed grey beard, staring off into the distance. The Breton – Callia – had undoubtedly been referring to Gorgoth, and no doubt the warrior-shaman had a past worth talking about. Gnaeus didn't care two septims for a man's past, or an Orc's past – it was the present that mattered. Gorgoth could be a mass murderer and Listener of the Dark Brotherhood for all Gnaeus cared. In fact, that might actually help; the Listener would have access to valuable tools. Gnaeus snorted and shook his head. Imagining the Orc as an assassin was a ludicrous prospect. The wind was chilling his bones. He turned and headed over to the East Barracks. Maybe he could scrounge up a cloak that fit, then go and clear out a den of bandits. The exercise would be welcome.

* * *

"Another ale, Maglir?"

The Wood Elf in question looked up at the serving girl employed at the West Weald Inn. He was shorter than most Bosmer, and his stature meant he used the shortsword at his hip as though it was a foot longer than it actually was. His studded leather armour bore a few scars from combat, and he wanted to keep it that way; the scars hurt, and were costly to fix. Maglir never liked getting holes in him. Though a scar might give his otherwise average face something to boast about.

"Think I'll pass," he muttered, covering his empty tankard with his gauntleted palm. He rarely took them off. "I don't have all that much left, and I've got to keep some back so the kids can get their schooling." His dry voice brightened slightly at the mention of Danlar and Adarel; his two children, as well as his wife, Calagail, were what drove him to the extremes that he went to. And extremes they were; memories of barely escaping from a bandit-infested ruin in search of some cairn bolete for an alchemist still made him shudder. The serving girl nodded and moved on.

Maglir sighed. He was in a rut. Fallen Rocks Cave was far too dangerous – he didn't want to leave a widow and two fatherless children – but the anger of Modryn Oreyn was almost as deadly. 'Caught between a rock and a hard place' had never been more suited to a situation. He idly traced a pattern out on the table, dipping his finger into the dregs of his ale. The doors to the Inn opened, and heavy boots thumped onto the floorboards. Maglir did not look up.

He did look up when the owner of the boots deposited himself at the table, causing the chair to shriek in complaint. "Are you Maglir?" asked the massive Orc, who, standing, would overtop Maglir by at least two and a half feet.

"Yes," replied Maglir, trying and failing to keep his voice from slipping an octave higher. His eyes widened even further when he properly took in the Orc's thick plate armour, his massive mace, and the dai-katana on his back. This was a warrior who could roll up Maglir and use him as a football, and he knew it.

"Oreyn sent me." Those three words sent the Bosmer's stomach to the pit of his stomach, and he immediately started babbling the first explanations and excuses that came to mind. Throughout his squeaking, the Orc merely kept those cold amber eyes fixed on him, pinning the Wood Elf to his chair through sheer terror. The mere thought of what an enforcer sent by Oreyn would do to him prompted Maglir to get even more creative with his excuses. He was in the middle of describing a zombie as tall as a house and twice as wide when the Orc held up a hand as large as a goblins head. Maglir's babbling cut off mid-flow, and he snapped his mouth shut.

"Where is Fallen Rocks Cave?" he asked, pulling a map from a pouch hanging from his belt. Maglir's shaking finger pointed out the location, an hour's hard ride from Skingrad. The Orc nodded once and stood, putting the map back in his pouch. Maglir slumped back into his seat, sheer relief sapping his limbs of any strength. He almost didn't hear the Orc's next sentence. "I am Gorgoth gro-Kharz, Journeyman. On your feet, Apprentice." Maglir looked up at Gorgoth with a crushed expression, but an order was an order. With the utmost reluctance, he dragged himself upright.

"Should I tell-" A raised hand once again cut Maglir off mid-sentence.

"You're coming with me. To Fallen Rocks Cave."

Maglir whimpered. This wasn't going to end well.

* * *

Vorguz expressed his contempt more freely than his stoic master. As Gorgoth tied him to a tree, the massive stallion looked over at Maglir's small paint horse and snorted disdainfully. The Bosmer's horse turned its head away and ambled off in search of some grass within the reach of the reins tying it to a tree. At the lichen-covered entrance to Fallen Rocks Cave, Maglir was fervently wishing that he could solve his problems as easily as his horse did. He'd entered Fallen Rocks Cave – albeit briefly – and knew what to expect. He wasn't optimistic about his chances.

"I-is this really necessary, Journeyman? I mean, you could probably complete the contract yourself without m-" Gorgoth's flat, cold stare cut Maglir off.

"You took the contract. You will complete it. Anything else would be a dereliction of duty and utter cowardice." Gorgoth paused. "I don't know how it's done here, but in Orsinium I'd have killed you already." The warrior-shaman turned to face the entrance to the cave and drew his dai-katana, holding it in his left hand while he clutched the haft of his mace firmly in his right hand. "You signed up. You knew the risks. Why say you'll do something if you know you can't?" Gorgoth's icy voice allowed no argument, and he strode confidently into the cave, leaving Maglir no option but to draw his shortsword and follow.

A glowing ball of pale green light appeared, suspended two feet above Gorgoth's head, illuminating the cavern and banishing shadows to the deepest recesses. Pale lichen covered nearly every rock, and stalactites hung from the ceiling, almost brushing Gorgoth's hair. The sound of water dripping could be heard from the distance, as well as a sound that sent chills rushing down Maglir's spine: low moans and muted shrieks. He gripped the hilt of his shortsword until his hands hurt, but he could not keep the weapon from wavering in his grasp. Gorgoth was predictably unaffected, waving for Maglir to follow him as he advanced deeper into the cursed cave.

The cavern narrowed into a thin passageway, with rocks threatening to break loose at every footfall. Every time a few pebbles slid down the cave wall, Maglir jumped and looked around wild-eyed for danger, only to be jerked back to his senses by a grunt from Gorgoth, who never slowed his progress. The shadows seemed to get more resistant to the Orc's magical light as they descended further into the depths of darkness, treading on rocks which had not seen sunlight for centuries. As the moans and screams from ahead and below got louder, Maglir hunched his shoulders, attempting to retreat into himself. He could hear voices in those screams, calling out to him.

A corner led them to an opening in the passageway. Standing in the centre of the small cavern was a zombie, decaying, rotted flesh hanging from an exposed skeleton. Gorgoth snorted and muttered something about shoddy craftsmanship. Maglir planted his feet and attempted to quiet his fears. It was only a single zombie.

Two more zombies, in even worse shape than the first one, shambled from the shadows. Maglir cursed and brought his blade up in front of him, attempting to stop shaking. Gorgoth slowly walked forward. Maglir felt no inclination to follow him. The warrior-shaman halted just as the first zombie forced itself into action and approached him at a lurching run. A single smooth attack by Gorgoth sent its rotten head falling to the rock floor, making a slight squelch as it landed, rolling towards the Bosmer, who jumped out of the way. Gorgoth sidestepped a clumsy lunge by a zombie with almost contemptuous ease and smashed his mace into its ribcage, resulting in the almost complete disintegration of its entire torso. The third zombie, possessing neither brains nor sense, swung its arms in a seemingly random pattern towards Gorgoth, who neatly chopped both arms off then decapitated the helpless reanimated corpse.

"I could raise better dead in my sleep," snorted Gorgoth, wiping rotting flesh from the blade of his katana. "The necromancer who raised these specimens should be ashamed." He waved for Maglir to follow him deeper into the cave. The Bosmer followed, eyes wide with shock.

After dispatching several more poorly-maintained zombies with pathetic ease, Gorgoth and Maglir entered a larger cavern. An ethereal green glow seemed to coalesce in front of them, and the ghost wasted no time in sending waves of magicka at the Guildsmen. The cold hand of the grave reached out for Gorgoth, who casually brushed the spell aside with reflection magic and sent fire curling at the ghost from five different angles. It didn't last two seconds, howling blasphemies before collapsing into a growing pool of ectoplasm.

"You make it seem so easy," stammered Maglir as Gorgoth, for reasons unknown to the Bosmer, put his mace back through its loop on his belt. "Could you... teach me how to, er... fight?" Gorgoth's contemptuous gaze scared Maglir almost as much as the ghosts.

"I have better things to do than look after mewling infants who should not be off their mother's apron strings," he growled, searching the cavern for signs of unlife. A daedric dai-katana, similar to the Akaviri weapon in his left hand, appeared in the Orc's right hand. Both of the weapons were less than a foot shorter than Maglir, yet Gorgoth handled one in each hand easily. "There are a lot of zombies in the next cavern. Be prepared to get your blade dirty." The Orc immediately started off for the passageway across the cavern. Maglir followed, cautiously stepping across the pool of ectoplasm.

Gorgoth was correct; as soon as they stepped into the next, high-ceilinged cavern, the moans of zombies filled the air. These specimens seemed to have been reanimated by a better necromancer, and were in better condition. Some were headless, and some few left a trail of misty, dark vapours whenever they moved. Gorgoth made note of these dangerous dread zombies as he moved to attack. Maglir could only whimper as he watched his fellow Guildsman slowly walk towards a pack of twenty zombies.

The first zombie to reach Gorgoth did not even have time to attack as his daedric blade sliced it in two, the otherworldly steel cutting through flesh and bone like paper. Dropping his right shoulder, Gorgoth barged past another zombie, putting himself in the midst of them, and swung his blades in a wide arc while spinning on the spot, one knee bent low. Maglir watched, awe overcoming his fear, as various body parts started flying across the cavern, the powerful slashes of the Orc ripping apart zombies quicker than they could attack. Stopping his spin, Gorgoth stepped back and pivoted, both blades cleaving into the chest of a single dread zombie, cutting its ribcage in two. As it fell, the warrior-shaman spun, kicking a zombie's legs from under it, and slashed in different directions, each blade decapitating a corpse.

Maglir was so enthralled by his companion's fighting that he barely noticed the approaching zombie in time. Putting on a grim expression, he dodged under the corpse's slow attack and stabbed it in the chest, a small smile of victory fluttering onto his face. This wasn't so hard after all. Wrenching his blade free, he turned back to his companion, only for the zombie – the one that he'd stabbed just a moment ago – to land a glancing blow on his back, staggering him. Gaping, the Bosmer turned to observe the zombie lurch towards him, ignoring the stab wound in its chest.

"Stabbing the heart of something that doesn't need it is highly likely to do nothing," observed Gorgoth, casually leaning on his dai-katanas amidst the pile of zombies that he'd laid to rest. "Try decapitation or dismemberment; that's the only way with zombies."

Maglir planted his feet and dodged another attack, using the opportunity to hack wildly at the zombie's outstretched arm. The rotting flesh and poorly-preserved bone parted under his steel blade, and the useless limb dropped to the floor, the hand grasping at Maglir's foot. Not stopping to contemplate the loss of half its offensive arsenal, the corpse swung again. Maglir ducked and chopped madly at its head, separating it from the rest of its body in three strokes. The head hit the floor just before the remains of the zombie collapsed. Panting, leaning on his shortsword, Maglir looked to Gorgoth for some kind of recognition.

"In Orsinium, a child could have done better," growled the Orc, jerking his head towards another passageway. Sagging in both disappointment and the realisation that there was more to do, Maglir dejectedly fell in behind Gorgoth, ignoring the flesh sticking stubbornly to his blade. The Orc continued with his semi-lecture, his voice echoing and rebounding off the rock walls: "I grew up in the city, so I did not see much combat apart from the near-constant brawls and fistfights that are a crucial part of any Orc's youth. But out in the country, young Orcs are taught to use weapons almost as soon as they can walk. It is rare that a boy has not killed a wolf or bear before his eighth birthday." Gorgoth turned his head slightly, regarding Maglir stonily. "You are a pathetic whelp who barely deserves the right to live. Grow up and make a man of yourself." He turned and walked on ahead, increasing the pace. Maglir started to simmer inside, but fear of both the Orc and the undead in the cave held his tongue.

The next cavern contained two ethereal, threatening shadows that coalesced and faded sporadically, each clutching a longsword in a bony hand that was beyond shrivelled. Gorgoth merely raised a hand and the wraiths simply died, long streams of ectoplasm spurting from their gaping black mouths as they shrieked their way back to the grave. "Not all Destruction magic is obvious," rumbled Gorgoth in response to Maglir's jaw dropping. "I combined that with a bit of Necromancy; nothing that you would understand. Move on." They continued down into the depths of Fallen Rocks Cave, the sound of running water reaching their ears.

Eventually they came to an underground steam running through a narrow passageway. Gorgoth splashed in without hesitation, the water barely reaching his ankles. Maglir winced as the freezing, dark waters rushed over his knees, soaking his leather armour and chilling him to the bone. A handful of zombies were dispatched with ease, and soon they found a cleft in the rock, which contained a worn sack and a mouldy, age-worn journal. The journal that Maglir was supposed to have returned to Oreyn three days ago. Gorgoth picked it up, flipped through a few pages, then stuffed it into a small bag on his belt, ignoring the damp that was causing the cover to deform. Maglir breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, they would escape this hell.

"I'll be making sure I describe your utter cowardice and uselessness in great detail when I make my report to Oreyn," growled Gorgoth, brushing his way past Maglir and back out of the water. The Bosmer started and jogged to catch up as it became evident that Gorgoth wasn't about to wait around for him. "Personally, I find useless cowards an embarrassment and would kick you out of the Guild if I had any say in the matter," continued Gorgoth, his voice booming around the caverns, sure to awaken any dead that he hadn't already re-laid to rest.

"Hey, we Bosmer aren't natural fighters," protested Maglir. "You can't expect us to-"

"Nonsense," snorted Gorgoth. "I know of two Bosmer who are very good at what they do. One could hamstring you without you even knowing he was there, and the other could shoot you down at two hundred paces, maybe more." Shaking his head in disgust, the Orc increased his pace, boots ringing on the rocks and occasionally squelching through the remains of zombies. Maglir broke into a run, desperately trying to keep within the circle of light provided by Gorgoth's glowing orb. The shadows were pressing in on him in a way that definitely seemed unnatural.

After what felt like the most tense hour of his life, but in fact was a short walk, Maglir almost fell out of Fallen Rocks cave into the dusk, doubling over with his hands on his knees and gasping for breath. Gorgoth didn't even spare him a glance as he untied Vorguz's reins and mounted the stallion, who tossed his head, eager to be off and away from the cursed cave. Maglir, intensely afraid of both the Orc and Oreyn, didn't even ask how he was going to be paid as Gorgoth rode off to the east, journal secure in his saddlebags.

* * *

The rooms assigned to the Emperor whenever he visited Cloud Ruler Temple –an uncommon occurrence in past years – were not as luxurious as the Emperor could expect in the Imperial Palace – this was a military fortress, after all – but they were certainly lacking for nothing. They were large, and divided into two rooms. The bedroom had a massive four-poster bed, wardrobes for extensive apparel, and thick carpets, as well as a window that faced east. Its only door led what Martin had started calling his study, a slightly smaller room, well-lit from the light from windows facing east and west, filled with comfortable chairs and a large, thick oak table and ringed with extensive bookshelves. Apart from the door leading to the bedroom, the only door was a reinforced oak affair guarded constantly on the outside by two Blades, who these days were almost invariably Baurus and Glenroy. The pair of Blades had assumed that guarding Martin in their every waking moment might go some way towards atoning for their failure to protect his father.

Martin sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was not used to such luxury, but that wasn't what was causing his fatigue. The Mysterium Xarxes lay open in front of him, and a short thin rod, held loosely in his right hand, served as a page-turner. After long hours of arduous translation, even with frequent breaks and Selene sharing some of the workload, the evil book had drained him, mentally and physically. The area on the table around Dagon's book was covered with books about daedric scripts, the nature of daedra, and just about anything referring to daedra that could be found in the fortress's library.

The door swung open to admit Selene, back from an apparently fruitless trip to the library. She'd long since shoved her armour and glaive under one of the chairs and got into her far more comfortable green cotton dress that she'd acquired in the Imperial City. It reminded Martin of the dress that the healer at the Chapel of Akatosh had worn on that fateful night. He leaned back and sighed, in both regret and exhaustion.

Selene was leaning over him in an instant, green eyes flashing angrily. "Martin, you've been pushing too hard again," she hissed. It was always somewhat refreshing to deal with someone who called him by his name; almost everyone else in Cloud Ruler Temple referred to him as 'Sire' or some other title. "You said yourself that you shouldn't push too hard, and now look at you!" The half-elf pulled Martin out of his chair with some difficulty – he was in good shape after his intense physical training, and his muscles were getting both bulky and heavy – and turned him towards the full-length mirror nailed to the wall.

Martin grunted as though he'd been punched in the stomach. His face, instead of the healthy complexion he'd acquired over the years, was pale grey, with dark cracks around his eyes. The eyes themselves had dulled; no longer were they as blue as sapphires, but rather the colour of murky rainwater. He immediately walked over to the chair by the west window and flopped down, looking out at the sun setting over the mountains. Selene pushed the Xarxes closed, and the feeling of evil in the room was reduced to almost nothing. "I'll be fine after a good night's sleep," he reassured her. The dark magic of the Xarxes might corrupt lesser men, but Martin knew that unless it got a good hold, the adverse affects would retreat relatively quickly.

"I don't even know how you sleep with that thing in the next room," grumbled Selene, walking over to sit in a chair opposite him, drawing her legs up. "I can almost feel it all the way over in the East barracks. Paranoid, I know." She sighed and shook her head, golden hair flashing in the dying sun. "What have you learnt since I left?"

"It's progress, at least," summarised Martin. "The Xarxes is the key to entering Paradise; I think it might describe some kind of reagent we need to open a portal to get there."

"What kind of reagent?"

"We'll find out tomorrow." Before Kvatch, Martin might well have added 'Divines willing' onto the end of that sentence, but he still felt let down by the Nine. If he was being punished by them for his earlier... indiscretions, then this was a bad time to do it. They lapsed into silence, both watching the sun creep beneath the horizon, the red ball of flame slowly sinking until all that was left was a pink glow valiantly holding out against the darkness of twilight.

It was Selene who eventually broke the silence, awkwardly twisting one of her golden tresses back and forth, a picture of anxiety painted on her beautiful face. "Martin... this might be a sensitive question, but how many people who you cared for were... lost at Kvatch?" She was decidedly avoiding meeting his eye, biting her lip.

Martin's eyebrows shot up. It was indeed a sensitive question , but remembering her own experiences, it was a valid one. "Many," he sighed, as images of that fateful night rose, unbidden, to his eyes. He'd thought that heavy drinking might blot out the memories, but he refused to go down that path; he had to live with what had happened. "Many of my companions at the Chapel were killed. Many of the friends I had were mercilessly butchered, some before my very eyes as I watched from the windows of the chapel, helpless." The Imperial pounded his fist into his palm. "It hurts me, Selene, but there's nothing more I can do to help them now; they're in Aetherius. " Martin paused. "Maybe they're the lucky ones."

Selene's eyes locked onto his. "How do you deal with... with the people you've lost?" Her teeth were firmly embedded in her bottom lip to keep it from trembling, and the shining in her eyes wasn't the result of reflected moonlight.

Martin leaned back in his seat, head back, thinking over all the friends he'd lost over the years. It was a long list, longer than anyone should ever have. He admitted that he deserved to carry the burden of some of those deaths; mistakes had been made, all in the stupidity of youth. He sighed. "It gets easier with time," he explained. "You just have to pick yourself back up and keep going, no matter how hard it gets. No matter what you have to endure, you have to get on with life." He leaned forward, hand shifting as it rested on his knee. "Sometimes, if the burden you carry gets too heavy... put it down for a bit. Let your emotions run loose. I had to deal with plenty of that at the Chapel, with widows and the like. They were better for it afterwards." He didn't include that fact that he himself had done that more than once.

Selene nodded and turned to look at the stars, fingers gripping the wide, soft arms of the chair in an attempt to maintain her composure. Then her shoulders started trembling, and the tears started flowing as she once again recalled the daedric invasion of Whiterock. Martin, having experienced this many a time in the chapel, closed the distance in under a second, perching somewhat uncomfortably on the arm of her hair and putting a comforting arm around her shoulders. Selene buried her face in his chest, shoulders now heaving with emotion. "I can... still see... their faces," she choked.

"Then you are blessed," murmured Martin, stroking her lustrous hair. "You can remember them, and dedicate your life to their memory." His eyes grew slightly duller. "I wish I could recall faces," he muttered softly, staring blankly out of the window as Masser and Secunda glimmered softly overhead in the cloudless night sky.

* * *

Ilend's eyes snapped open, interrupting a rather nice dream that slipped through his mind's probing fingers as he attempted to recall what it had been about. Judging by the sheer, almost unnatural, silence of the fortress, it was some time past midnight, and the East Barracks was almost pitch black, the few windows letting in a little moonlight. Gnaeus's form was gently snoring halfway across the barracks, but Ilend quickly identified the reason for his waking; Aerin was sitting bolt upright, blanket slipping down to her waist, breathing heavily, and even in the dim light Ilend could tell that her eyes were wide with terror.

"Nightmare?" he asked, slowly extracting himself from his blanket, which had wrapped around his legs.

Aerin jumped at the sound of his voice, unbound hair audibly cutting through the air as she spun to face him. Working some moisture into her mouth, she attempted to explain: "A bad one. I was in Oblivion, and Firebrand somehow got in and trampled me. She left me for the Dremora." The Bosmer shuddered violently and hugged herself. "Gorgoth was watching and did nothing." What might have been a whimper escaped her throat.

Ilend sighed. "It's just a dream, Aerin," he told her in what he hoped was a soothing tone. "It can't hurt you; you're back in the real world now."

The darkness failed to hide Aerin's withering glare. "It felt real enough, guardsman," she snapped, before wincing and looking around to see if she'd woken anyone. Gnaeus kept snoring peacefully. "It might not be real, but that didn't stop it scaring me." Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

Ilend grunted. "You think you're the only one to get nightmares?" he asked. "I had bad ones, during and after Kvatch." She looked at him quizzically. "Yes, Aerin, I do have nightmares, and I only remember the worst." He sighed. "I just never let on. It's what a soldier does. He stays on his feet and gets on with what needs done." Aerin was about to respond when the swordsman rolled off his bedroll and crawled onto the mattress directly next to Aerin's.

"A couple of years before I joined the Kvatch Guard, some bad shit happened," he explained. "A couple of young guards stumbled across the basement of a house belonging to a vampire." The Imperial winced at the memory. It hadn't been the best story to tell an idealistic young guard, fresh from basic training. "They had nightmares for weeks afterward. Captain Matius had them assigned to beds right next to their closest comrades. If they ever woke in a cold sweat, they could reach out and reassure themselves that their friends were alive, tangible, and there to help." Ilend wriggled down under the blankets. His body was a mere foot from Aerin's. He could almost feel her body heat. "It did them a world of good, so it should help you as well." He attempted an encouraging smile. "I'm here if you need me." With that, he leaned back into the pillow, closing his eyes and relaxing, hoping that the cold bedroll would warm up soon.

"Thanks, Ilend," came Aerin's voice from somewhere to his right. Her hand found his arm, and he squeezed it for a moment before it retreated back under her blanket. Ilend smiled as he heard her breathing steady, then slow into the measured, regular pattern of deep sleep. He rolled over and found a more comfortable position, and sleep took him once more.

* * *

**A/N: And that's chapter twenty-one uploaded. I forgot to include this rant in the opening Author's Note, so here goes: WHY, please somebody tell me WHY did the idiots in charge of this site choose to MERGE the Morrowind and Oblivion fandoms? It's utterly incomprehensible and makes no sense whatsoever. Bleh. I predict much chaos and the burying of Oblivion fanfics under a deluge of Skyrim fanfics sometime this December.  
**

**Anyhow, as ever, reviews are ALWAYS appreciated, even if they're only one-liners telling me how much you like (or dislike) it. Every little helps.**


	22. Duty Calls

**A/N: Only five reviews for chapter 21? Have my exhortations fallen upon deaf ears? If you read, review. Simple.**

**Underpaid Critic: Fear not, reviews will never affect my rate of uploads. Only my own determination to see this finished long before the release of Skyrim can do that.**

**Random Reader: Modryn's a favourite of mine as well, so you can be sure he'll play a part. Also, I rarely play Oblivion any more, and right now I'm happy with it as it is, but if it ever gets stale... I'll know what to look for. And if someone attempts to strangle Gnaeus (understandable) they'd better move quickly if they don't want his blade in their ribs. He wouldn't be as bad if he knew he couldn't back it up.**

**Iyrsiiea: Merging, a good thing? Now we have no way of seperating Morrowind, Oblivion, and Skyrim fics. What if we only want to read fics about Skyrim, or only Oblivion? It'd be impossible.**

**Anyhow, I'll shut up for now. Just leave a review. It can only help.**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-two: Duty Calls**

Modryn Oreyn looked up as the door to the Chorrol Guildhall banged open. It would be time for lunch soon, and he was alone on the ground floor, unarmoured, filling out some accursed paperwork. Eager for a distraction, his eyes fell upon the Orc who had just entered, who wasted no time in stomping up to him and placing a large, almost completely unreadable, age-worn journal on the desk before the Dunmer. "I believe that this is the journal that Maglir was sent to retrieve," rumbled Gorgoth. Modryn felt the floorboards under his booted feet vibrate.

"Yes, it is," grunted Modryn. "No idea why the client wanted such a piece of crap, but I'm not about to question idiocy that we can profit from." He glanced up to meet Gorgoth's eyes, his own crimson eyes sharpening. "Why is it you standing there and not Maglir?"

"Maglir was a coward. I found him drowning his sorrows in ale in Skingrad, and dragged him down to Fallen Rocks Cave with me." If Gorgoth was feeling any satisfaction about making life uncomfortable, he did not show it as he made his report, which was brief and to the point, but covered all the vital facts. "In my opinion, Maglir is a disgrace to the Guild and should be removed as soon as convenient," he concluded, folding his arms and looking expectantly down at Oreyn.

"Leave that with me, Journeyman," sighed Modryn, rubbing his eyes and standing. He could use a break from the paperwork. He'd used to wear his jet-black hair in a Mohawk, but the arrival of a helmet with his new suit of armour had put an end to that. Now, it was tied back and hung loose at the back, brushing the tops of his shoulders. Standing this close to Gorgoth, Modryn felt small; the Orc overtopped him by almost a foot, and made Modryn, bulky for a Dunmer, look almost anorexic. He didn't like the insinuation, however unintended.

"I received a report this morning from our Leyawiin branch," he continued, gesturing towards one of the papers on the table. "Some of our men – Vantus Prelius, Rellian, and Dubok gro-Shagk - have taken up residence in local tavern, and are causing nothing but trouble." According the report, 'trouble' was a feeble way of putting it. "Letting your hair down after a gruelling contract is fine, but not when it makes the entire Guild look bad." Modryn took a step closer to Gorgoth and firmly poked the Orc's breastplate. "Fix it." With that, he turned and sat back down to tend to his paperwork, putting the Orc out of his mind. With half an ear, he registered the sound of steel on steel in a salute, then the sound of the door slamming as Gorgoth made his exit.

* * *

The braziers really did work wonders. Jauffre briskly rubbed his gauntleted hands together over the crackling fire, and immediately warmth started to run down his arms. Soon, the heated blood would reach the rest of his body, reducing the effects of patrolling the battlements for over an hour. Belisarius and Cyrus seemed just as appreciative of the heat as their Grandmaster, having just finished their pre-lunch sparring. At the moment, Jauffre was in a good mood, but in the current times, good moods could be shattered in the blink of an eye. Captain Renault joined the group around the brazier and motioned him away for a private word. Jauffre sighed and followed her over to lean against the West Barracks.

"My man in Orsinium confirms that what Callia said is true," she told him. Jauffre's good mood diminished slightly, but he'd expected the news.

"Well, I'll wait to hear Gorgoth's side before jumping to conclusions. Are you sure that your source is fully reliable?"

Renault's eyes were attempting to bore into Jauffre's skull. Even question one of her sources, and she took it as a personal insult. "Of course, Grandmaster," she replied, an icy tone slipping into her voice. "It's Caius." Jauffre smiled. Caius Cosades might be getting on in years, but he was still the best spymaster in the Blades.

"Is that all?" he asked. Ilend and Aerin drifted into his peripheral vision on their way to stand on the battlements, probably to admire the view. Renault gave a short nod and returned to the brazier. Jauffre paused for a moment, squinting up at the sky. A handful of small clouds periodically obscured the sun, but for now, the skies were clear. That didn't stop it from being cold; winds from the north meant that the snows had barely melted.

Ilend and Aerin seemed to be deep in conversation, leaning on the outer wall, and didn't hear the Breton as he crunched over to stand behind them. Clearing his throat prompted them both to turn; Aerin folded her arms and causally leaned back against the wall, hood of her cloak hiding half her face, while Ilend stood awkwardly halfway between standing to attention and slouching, evidently not knowing which posture to assume. Jauffre resisted the urge to smile.

"We have good news," he told them. "Martin and Selene have deciphered the first section of the Mysterium Xarxes." After hearing Martin talk at great length about the evils of the book, merely speaking its name brought a twist to Jauffre's mouth. If it was not of such great importance, he'd have had it burnt along with anything it had touched during its stay in his fortress. Unfortunately, that course of action was not open to him. "We need reagents... ingredients, if you will, to open a portal to Camoran's Paradise."

"I take it these ingredients aren't going to be a few sprigs of morning glory?" inquired Ilend, finally settling back to lean against the outer wall. His cloak hung loose, exposing his chainmail, and the wind was whipping his hair like a black flag.

Jauffre grunted. "I wish it was that easy," he sighed. "No, we need the blood of a Daedric Prince."

"So we waltz into Oblivion, stab Dagon in the arm, and job done," laughed Aerin. "Should be a piece of cake." She paused. "Wait, you're serious, ain't ya?"

"Fortunately, I doubt the Xarxes is to be taken completely literally at this point," continued Jauffre, ignoring the Bosmer. "I think it might refer to daedric artefacts; the Princes sometimes imbue some of their essence in these objects, giving them their power: that is what we are looking for."

Aerin moaned and closed her eyes, head dropping back to rest against the fortress wall, ignoring the hood falling back from her face. "I'm sure there's a few of those handily lying around that we can use," she muttered mirthlessly.

"I've already informed Gnaeus and sent a messenger to Gorgoth," said Jauffre, shooting a warning glance at the Wood Elf. "In fact, I think-"

"You're damn right, Jauffre, I _am_ ready to get some wear into these boots," came a gravelly voice to Jauffre's left. Gnaeus Magnus had from somewhere found a cloak, and he had two saddlebags swung over his left shoulder, with a staff clasped in his right hand. "I've been sitting, bored, in front of the fire for too long," he continued, ignoring the shocked expressions of Ilend and Aerin. "From what I recall, there's a shrine to Boethia in the middle of nowhere; shrines don't move much, so we'll head there."

"The shrine far to the south of Cheydinhal? You'd be far better off going to the nearby shrine to Azura-" Jauffre was cut off once again.

"For what? I'm not prepared to freeze my arse off even more than it already is just for some heir's convenience." Gnaeus harrumphed and beckoned Ilend and Aerin to join him. "Pack up, you two. I don't intend to travel on my lonesome, though no doubt you'll annoy me so much that I'll lose my sanity within the first hour." Jauffre was left standing alone on the battlements, watching with raised eyebrows as the three headed off to the East Barracks.

"Since when did you become so hyper, old man?" asked Aerin as they entered the barracks and she started throwing her meagre belongings together, ready to stuff into a saddlebag. "I thought you'd stay in front of the fire until spring, maybe summer."

Gnaeus snorted. "I may be old, girl, but my feet still itch. They've been cooped up on a tiny island for thirty-five years, and when a Daedric Prince decides to chuck a fire at said island, you'd think that they'd start roaring for action."

"Why Boethia?" asked Ilend, slinging his saddlebag over his shoulder and checking his sword belt.

"It's the only shrine I know," replied Gnaeus simply. "Jauffre tried to foist me off onto a shrine to Azura, but that's even higher up in the mountains." Aerin's sigh of relief was audible halfway across the barracks. "You can thank me later, girl, but now we need to scratch my itch." Aerin visibly recoiled. "Metaphorically," barked Gnaeus, turning on his heel and stalking off towards the stables.

Ilend and Aerin exchanged a glance. "Ya know, I think I preferred him when he slept eighteen hours a day," observed Aerin.

"Look on the bright side," replied Ilend, sounding optimistic. "At least he won't push as hard as Gorgoth; his horse isn't as fast." The Imperial followed Gnaeus out of the barracks. Aerin took one last, almost wistful, glance around, then followed him.

* * *

The noonday sun meant that the shadows were barely visible on the sands of the Arena. Beating down mercilessly from a near-cloudless sky, it also served to make the weather seem hotter than mid-autumn. Having lived in Cyrodiil for a few years, Saliith was by now used to the weather, but at times in winter he found himself sorely missing the warm, humid climate of Black Marsh. Now was not one of those times. Right now, all he could do was focus on the Blue Team Hero across the sands, both watching each other warily.

Saliith's opponent, light-skinned for a Dunmer, had been Gladiator for months, and when he was finally promoted to Hero recently, no-one had claimed that it was undeserved. While he'd been in the Arena for so long that he rarely used his name any more – Saliith himself did not know it – with that experience came lethal efficiency. A scimitar hung from his hip, a war axe was strapped to his back, and a bow was held in his hands, an arrow half-drawn. The Dark Elf could use them all with skill approaching mastery.

Having left his armour in his room at The Merchants Inn, Saliith had donned a new yellow raiment, Owyn predictably grumbling about the demise of the old one, which was irreparable; after he had removed it, only a few stitches had stopped it from breaking in two. The Argonian's shortswords were as sharp as ever, as were his throwing knives. His mind was sharp as well; fighting was just about the only time it was ever focused these days. Thoughts still in turmoil, Saliith had resolved to fight until either he'd reached a decision about what to do, or received word from Gorgoth.

In under a second, the Dunmer had drawn the arrow to his cheek and loosed it at Saliith, who had been expecting it. He rolled to the side, coming up in a crouch, ready to dodge again, but his opponent was being conservative with his arrows. The crowd was growing restless, but they could wait. Each gladiator blocked out everything but each other. The Dark Elf's bow was a composite, with a balance of speed, range, and power, but in this case, it was too slow; a short bow would have caused more problems for Saliith, but now he was already jumping out of the way before the arrow left the bowstring.

Saliith whipped a throwing knife from his back and threw it, sun reflecting off the steel as it flew towards the Blue Team Hero, who sidestepped rapidly to avoid it. A small cloud of sand rose from where the knife hit the ground and slid to a halt. Saliith rushed forward, closing the distance rapidly. The Dunmer loosed an arrow, but Saliith smoothly leapt into a forward roll, feeling the flight of the arrow as it passed over his back, and rose up to strike at his opponent with both blades. Throwing his bow aside, the Dark Elf drew his scimitar and parried Saliith's strike with such force that the Argonian's other arm was thrown off balance and his attack merely grazed the light blue raiment.

Falling back, Saliith gave his opponent no respite and struck again, left sword darting towards the Dunmer's stomach while the other moved to decapitate him. Sidestepping, the Dark Elf blocked the swing while somehow using his right arm as a sword-breaker, slamming his arm into the side of the blade to press it against his ribcage. As Saliith attempted to cut upwards through his bicep, the Dunmer brought a foot up with stunning speed and kicked Saliith in the stomach with such ferocity that the Argonian was knocked off his feet, losing his left shortsword.

Saliith flipped back to his feet, throwing a knife in the same movement. The range was too short for the slightly unbalanced Dunmer to dodge easily, and the blade sliced his cheek open, sending a trickle of blood down his face, the crimson contrasting sharply with the ash-grey skin. Releasing Saliith's trapped shortsword, the Dark Elf caught the hilt and flipped it round, ready to use it against its owner. Saliith pulled another knife from his back and clenched it tightly in his left fist. The two Heroes circled each other warily, neither willing to resume the conflict, despite the howls of the crowd. Saliith had drawn first blood, but was disadvantaged by the loss of his shortsword.

The Blue Team Hero charged. Saliith met the scimitar with his shortsword and fell to a crouch, stabbing up at the Dunmer's stomach with his knife as his own shortsword grazed his arm. The Dark Elf spun away and swung again at Saliith's flank. Turning, the Argonian rolled under the attack and flipped up, kicking his opponent in the back and sending him staggering forward, but the experienced gladiator recovered and turned before Saliith could capitalise. His throwing knife was easily avoided. The Yellow Team Hero grimaced and pulled another one off his back. His supply was rapidly decreasing.

Once again, the nameless Dunmer charged in, slashing across Saliith's chest with a swing strong enough to slice the Argonian in two. Saliith sidestepped and threw his knife. Through freakish luck, it deflected off the shortsword clenched in the Dark Elf's left fist and flew into his ribcage, cutting through the raiment until it came to rest between his lower ribs, dangerously close to his kidney. Not wasting his opportunity, Saliith darted in as his opponent stumbled, ignoring the shocked gasp of the crowd, and started a relentless series of slashes, driving his wounded opponent back across the sands. While slowed and undoubtedly in considerable pain, the Blue Team Hero was able to keep Saliith at bay, aided by the Argonian missing half his normal offensive melee arsenal.

Despite his valiant attempts at survival, the Dunmer had effectively lost the battle; while not a fatal wound, it was enough to slow him, and in a hotly contested fight, that was enough. Slowly, Saliith was backing him into a corner, prompting some of the crowd to rise to their tiptoes, stretching their necks for a better view. Any attempt at a counterattack was immediately destroyed by Saliith, who had flown into a frenzy, using his limbs as well as his blade in attack, occasionally even throwing his shortsword from fist to fist. The audience knew the end had to come soon, and waited with bated breath. The announcer gestured for more water to cleanse his throat in preparation for announcing the winner.

Abruptly, the Dunmer smashed aside Saliith's blade with enough force to stagger the Argonian, then stepped back, both swords falling to his side, slumping. The sheer pain and exhaustion was evident on his face, his crimson eyes dull. Roars from the crowd urged Saliith to finish it quickly. The announcer rose to his feet. Less experienced gladiators watching from their viewing area started to head back down to the Bloodworks. The more experienced ones stayed.

The Argonian's clear green eyes met the Dunmer's scarlet eyes. Saliith didn't move from his crouch, within striking reach of his opponent. The audience, almost frenzied with anticipation, howled for Saliith to rush in and end it. But Saliith had made the mistake once before of assuming an opponent was defeated; he had barely got out with his life. He stayed where he was, a slow smile creeping onto his face, sword raised, ready to attack. A snarl contorted the face of the Dunmer, his partly faked exhaustion banished from his features as he roared a war cry and leapt at his adversary, swinging both blades. Saliith rolled under him, slashing his blade up just as he rose from his roll. A moment of resistance slowed the blade, and the screams of the crowd almost overwhelmed him as blood splattered the sands. Saliith rose to his full height and turned.

Blood was pooling around the Dunmer; Saliith's shortsword, aided by the momentum of both combatants, had cut through the light raiment, flesh, and bone, splitting the Blue Team Hero, creating a huge, gaping wound running from his groin to his stomach. Effectively, Saliith had lengthened the Dark Elf's legs.

Kneeling by the side of his opponent, Saliith strained to catch his last words. Blood spurted out of the Dunmer's trembling mouth as he attempted to force his words out, only to helplessly gurgle as his long Arena career came to an end. His hand lifted in a feeble attempt to grasp Saliith's wrist, then fell back as his eyes glazed over. Ignoring the rhetoric of the announcer and the cries of the crowd, Saliith gently slid his opponents eyes closed and straightened slowly.

He never had learnt the Dunmer's name. Neither had the crowd. They didn't care. What they wanted was a spectacle, and if a hero rose from that, they named him themselves. A gladiator was just that to them; a source of entertainment; someone to be cheered on in the relentless search for excitement. Their personal thoughts, feelings, past – none of them mattered to the crowd. In the end, it didn't matter that the Dunmer had been nameless; no-one would remember him anyway. Just another corpse to be chucked in the sewers to rot and be forgotten. A fate that Saliith was determined to avoid. Glory would be hard-won, but he doubted that Agronak would ever be truly forgotten. Agronak would get a grave. Agronak might even have a bloody plaque with some of his words of wisdom engraved upon it. Because he was the Grey Prince.

Saliith retrieved his other shortsword and collected up his throwing knives. Ignoring the crowd, he walked slowly back to the Bloodworks. Branwen had never considered becoming just another anonymous corpse, but it had still happened. Their shared dream of immortal glory was over for her, but not for Saliith. She was forgotten no matter what he did – no-one would ever appreciate a loser, no matter what any gladiator said – but, if she could talk to him now, he was certain of what she would say. _Don't let me hold you back, Saliith. Live the dream. Win the glory that I couldn't. I know I'm not forgotten by everyone._

Bypassing the Basin of Renewal – he had suffered nothing more than bruises in the battle – the Argonian walked up to Owyn, who wordlessly handed him a heavy bag of gold. Saliith hung it from his sword belt and left the Bloodworks. He never trained in there. Too cramped.

Apparently, he was quite an attraction, as there was a steady stream of spectators leaving the Arena after collecting their winnings, apparently having showed up just to watch him fight. As Saliith watched them, wary of Agronak's fan – the yellow-haired Bosmer had taken to rehearsing his worshipping routines on unsuspecting gladiators – two young Argonians spotted him and approached him, both grinning eagerly. Saliith noted that they couldn't be much more than sixteen, but he wasn't too surprised; the Arena attracted just about every race and all ages. The two Argonians, looking like a brother and sister, both wearing slightly ragged tunics over their light green scales, approached him somewhat nervously.

"Hey there, gladiator," greeted the boy, his rasping voice betraying his nervousness. "That was-" he was interrupted by his sister.

"Didn't you hear the announcer?" she asked her brother indignantly. "He's a Hero, not a Gladiator." Turning back to Saliith, she attempted a smile. "That was some fight, Hero, we were watching."

Saliith had been warned about fans by various higher-ranking gladiators, though thankfully none were as bad as Agronak's personal Bosmeri terror. It appeared that the tales of mobbing by squealing girls were false, at least for Argonians. "Thanks," he grunted. "He was a good fighter." Saliith paused. "What name do you know me by?" he asked, somewhat interested as to what he was known as.

"When you started, there were hundreds of names for you," piped up the boy, his tail jerking in eagerness. "Now, we only ever hear you called The Scaled Slasher, The Green Whirlwind, or Bloodscales."

"It's a process of elimination, really," chipped in the girl. "As you get higher up, your names get changed, and lesser ones get eliminated, before you end up with just one left." She had a burst of purple scales at her throat, unlike her brother, who had orange creeping up the sides of his neck. Apart from those splashes of colour, they were all light green.

Saliith leaned back against a nearby pillar, folding his arms, tail twitching slightly. "And what are your names?" he asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed Agronak crossing the Arena grounds quickly, with a harried expression on his face. His haste was not enough; his fan burst out of a nearby bush and promptly knelt in front of his hero, bowing so deeply and repeatedly it looked like he was heatbutting the paving stones. Saliith jerked his attention back to the two Argonians.

Both seemed taken aback that their idol would take even a passing interest in them, but they swiftly recovered, talking over each other in their eagerness to answer, all awkwardness leaving their postures as they attempted to please their hero. Saliith managed to work out that the boy was Huzei and the girl was Neesha. He held up his hands, and instantly their babble cut off. "It was good to meet you," he rasped. "But right now I have to keep up my training, or it's likely that you'll see more blood on my scales than my Arena name suggests." They giggled at that, and scurried off to their home on the Waterfront. He watched them leave the Arena grounds, then shook his head, sighed, and headed over to the training area that he'd once shared with Branwen.

Before he reached it, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he found himself looking up into the pale face of Agronak gro-Malog, who had apparently successfully fled from his fan. They'd exchanged words in the past, but no more than the odd sentence. "We need to talk," muttered Agronak, his face unreadable as he led Saliith over to the paved training area that the Argonian had been heading to. Not many gladiators trained in this section; Saliith was quite protective of it.

"What is it?" asked Saliith, somewhat warily. It was the opinion of some of the gladiators that he was the biggest rising threat to the current Grand Champion, as the Yellow Team Champion, Hroadis, had been sitting on her rank for four months now, with no sign of wanting to challenge Agronak, and certainly not skilled enough to survive such a battle.

"I'll be blunt, Saliith," rumbled Agronak, leaning on a pillar and folding his arms. "You want to duel Owyn, and I can tell that you won't rest until he's dead. I saw the look in your eyes when you confronted him upon your return, and they're not the eyes of a pacifist."

"So what does that have to do with you?" asked Saliith, but he already knew. He'd thought about it often enough.

"If you succeed in killing Owyn, the only available option to replace him as Blademaster is me," grunted Agronak. "I might not want to retire early. Ten years as Grand Champion might not be enough for some people. And it's unheard of for a new Grand Champion to be proclaimed without a fight."

Saliith was nodding. "So you want me to put aside my differences with Owyn for now?" he asked, heart sinking slightly. He'd prefer to watch Owyn take his dying breath sooner rather than later.

"No." Saliith's head snapped up, and he started Agronak in the eye. The half-Orc was not joking. "Ten years as Grand Champion is more than enough for me. You might be able to challenge me, one day, but you would need years of experience first. Gorgoth gro-Kharz might be my equal, but he cares nothing for the Arena. So I'll retire and become Blademaster... IF you kill Owyn."

Saliith swallowed. "What about the new Grand Champion?" he asked.

Agronak snorted. "Hroadis will be promoted unless there's a challenger from either team, which is quite likely. She won't last a month as Grand Champion." The half-Orc spat, his saliva staining some of the sand that had blown onto the paved area. "So, Saliith, the ball is in your court." The Grand Champion nodded and walked off in the direction of the Arena, head swivelling, on the lookout for his fan, leaving Saliith alone with his swirling thoughts.

* * *

It took Gorgoth three days of hard riding to reach Leyawiin. He stabled Vorguz as the sun started to touch the horizon. Upon entering Blackwood, Gorgoth had immediately become aware of the humidity; he'd never experienced such conditions before, had never seen a swamp in his life. Reading about the area in books had prepared him somewhat, so when a land dreugh leaped out of the River Niben, which the road ran beside, he had taken it in his stride and vaporised it before it could take two steps.

He immediately headed for the Fighter's Guild, receiving directions from the gate guard. The Guildhall was similar to most other buildings of the town; built with wood from the Blackwood, the colour made it seem permanently damp, though the construction itself looked strong and sturdy. Pushing open the doors, he walked in, ducking under the doorway to find the large Guildhall virtually deserted. Numerous wings meant that it could hold a large contingent, but Gorgoth could immediately only spot two Guildsmen, an Imperial and a Redguard, who were talking with the kind of attitude that indicated that they were bored out of their minds. This was not good, and that bad feeling was enhanced by the fact that the Guildhall was dirty and falling into a state of disrepair.

Stomping up to the pair of Guildsmen, who turned their heads somewhat lethargically to regard him, Gorgoth did not waste time with introductions. "I'm looking for Vantus Prelius, Rellian, and Dubok gro-Shagk," he rumbled.

The Imperial, in a suit of light plate armour with a longsword at his hip, looked up at the ceiling and muttered something to himself before turning back to Gorgoth. "Figured Oreyn would send someone soon," he mumbled. "They're in the Five Claws Lodge, going wild because the bloody Blackwood Company has stolen all the jobs around here." He pursed his lips and spat, imitated a second later by the Redguard.

"The Blackwood Company?" asked Gorgoth. He'd seen some shady-looking characters wearing uniform light plate and leather armour on his walk to the Guildhall, all wearing the same insignia: a sword and an axe crossed in front of a tree. "Who are they?"

This time, it was the Redguard's turn to speak, after spitting again, her saliva making a small pool on the dark wood floor. "A load of bloody profiteers, ruthless ex-mercenaries," she told Gorgoth, hatred evident in her voice. "When they failed to reclaim parts of Black Marsh for the Empire, they set up shop here, undercutting us and doing work that we'd never even think about doing." She shook her head in disgust. "I'm pretty sure they're involved in smuggling. I wouldn't put murder past that lot."

Gorgoth nodded, tapping his canines. "This does not change my assignment," he rumbled. "Where is the Five Claws Lodge?"

"You probably passed it on your way here," the Imperial told him. "It's within sight of the West Gate." He hesitated. "Good luck." Gorgoth paused on his way out of the Guildhall.

"Find cleaning equipment and bring it out into the hall," he ordered. They were still blinking in confusion as he swung the doors shut behind him.

The Orc was halfway back to the West Gate, mulling over what he'd say to the Guildsmen after he'd assessed the situation, when an elven voice called his name. He recognised that voice, and it very nearly brought a smile to his face. Turning towards the source of the sound, he folded his arms and stood still waiting.

Many people said that Dunmer were one of the more reserved races on Nirn. Those people had clearly never met Dralasa Helas. At this moment, the short, slender Dunmer mage was sprinting towards Gorgoth as fast as her long legs would carry her, then leaping at him, wrapping her arms around his bulky neck and her legs around his waist, ignoring how the skirt of her knee-length blue silk dress rode up almost to her hips. She never had cared about much apart from what she chose to focus on at the time.

"It IS you, Gorgoth!" she squealed in delight, beaming up at him, her large scarlet eyes virtually brimming with tears of joy. Nearby passers-by were looking at them oddly and shaking their heads in bewilderment. Gorgoth merely grunted and returned the hug, gripping the Dark Elf hard enough to make her ribs creak, before gently putting her down.

"It is me, Dral," he confirmed. "How long has it been? Two months?"

"Two and a half, and that's too long," replied Dralasa, pouting briefly before her almost perpetual grin returned. She and Gorgoth – who could not be more different - had often worked together as mercenaries in Orsinium ever since they'd first met, over a year ago. Dralasa's strength lay not in martial might, nor in most schools of magic – she could barely heal broken bones and cast a moderate detect life spell – but in Destruction, where she could easily match him spell for spell, at least until her magicka ran out. "You know, I thought you were dead!" she exclaimed, reaching up and gripping his cheeks with both hands, as thought to confirm that he was actually tangible. Gorgoth removed her hands so that he could reply.

"And why would you think that?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow. "I recall you claiming that nothing could kill me, several times, in fact."

Dralasa's eyes darted towards Gorgoth's belt, searching. Confusion crept into her demeanour. "But... I saw Blood King the other day, and it wasn't on your hip," she told him, tracing a line in the dirt of the road with her shoe. "I thought... you know... that it can only passed on if the wielder dies, and..." she looked up at him, almost fearfully.

"The link still exists, Dral." He knew that for a fact; the link with his old weapon had been present ever since he'd won it, and he'd felt it just the same, if muted, when he'd woken up in the Imperial Prison. "I am still the wielder. Whoever had it now cannot realise its full potential." Gorgoth narrowed his eyes. "Who has it?"

Dralasa looked both ways, and furtively motioned to Gorgoth. He lowered his head, and she leaned forward to speak into his ear. Most other men in that would have been distracted by the Dunmer's impressive cleavage, enhanced by her low-cut dress, but Gorgoth had long since trained himself not to notice. "General Adamus Phillida, Commander of the Imperial Legion," she breathed into his ear. "He's commanded the Legions for forty years. Azura knows how many battles he won. He's a master of his art, Gorgoth. He's survived the Dark Brotherhood twice. And he's taken your mace." Dralasa smiled wryly and shook her head, stepping back. "May his Divines preserve him from your wrath."

Gorgoth tapped a canine. "He is stationed in the Imperial City?" Dralasa nodded. "And would you say he's a man of honour?" he asked.

Dralasa nodded vigorously. "Most definitely," she assured him. "He might even listen to what you have to say." She changed the subject with her usual rapidity. "So, what brings you all the way down to Leyawiin?" she asked, folding her arms behind her back and leaning towards him, smiling sweetly up at him. She did that a lot.

Gorgoth grunted. "It's a long story, Dral, and it's good to see you, but I've got pressing business," he muttered apologetically. She pouted in frustration. "If you ask around for me in Bruma, you'll get directions to where you can leave a message," he continued unwilling to reveal the actual location of Cloud Ruler Temple directly. "We have a lot of catching up to do."

"Damn right we do," laughed Dralasa, rising up onto her tiptoes and winking at him. Gorgoth understood the gesture and somewhat reluctantly picked her up, his massive hands easily meeting around her slim waist. She grinned and kissed him on both cheeks, before Gorgoth slowly lowered her back to earth. Denying Dralasa that would be denying the core of who she was, and Gorgoth refused to do that. The Dunmer might be slightly mad – many would say more than slightly – but she was one of the few Gorgoth would call a friend, and a reliable one at that. Most of the time.

"So, we'll see each other later, then," smiled Dralasa as she took a few steps backward, waving a hand in farewell. "Don't die, Gorgoth!" With that, she was gone, turning, skirt swirling, walking briskly back into the heart of Leyawiin. Gorgoth shook his head, lips twitching slightly, and continued on towards the Five Claws Lodge.

On the outside, the Lodge appeared to be in very good, very clean, condition. Even the grass and shrubs outside were well-trimmed. However, when Gorgoth ducked in through the small doorway, it was a different story; tables were overturned, the floor and walls were stained, and several floorboards were cracked. In the middle of all this was a Redguard, an Orc, and an Imperial, all wearing heavy armour, and all very obviously the errant members of the Fighter's Guild that Gorgoth had been sent to deal with. They didn't even look around to register his appearance. The Argonian innkeeper was steadfastly sat behind the bar, arms folded, glaring at the Guildsmen with a stare so full of venom and hatred that they might have spontaneously combusted there and then if looks could kill. A handful of patrons were seated at the few remaining tables, heads down so as not to cause trouble.

Gorgoth wasted no time in marching up to the three Guildsmen, glaring at each of them with a stare that would make most men weak at the knees. It at least sobered them up some. "Are you Vantus Prelius, Rellian, and Dubok gro-Shagk?" he barked, already fitting a name to each of them; Vantus had to be the Imperial, shorter than usual, but having an air of experience about him. Rellian was the Redguard, also appearing to be a seasoned warrior, with two katanas on his back. Dubok appeared to be the typical Orc 'berserker'; massive warhammer, and the heaviest armour of the three, heavy steel plates covering him from head to toe.

"That's us," replied Vantus, somewhat casually. "What-" Gorgoth let him go no further.

"Oreyn sent me here as his enforcer," he announced in a voice dripping with threats. While not technically his enforcer, Oreyn had given Gorgoth a task, and Gorgoth was single-mindedly set on accomplishing it in the most straightforward manner available to him. "Explain yourselves." The Orc's gesture swept around the devastated common room. Most of the patrons still had their heads down, though the Argonian innkeeper appeared somewhat relieved that finally something was happening.

Vantus took a step forward. He was over a full foot shorter than Gorgoth, but he didn't seem too intimidated as he stared the warrior-shaman in the eyes. "Blame the Blackwood Company," he growled. "They're taking all the jobs. We'd all be happy to pay and behave if we had any money." The Imperial rubbed his gauntleted fingers together, creating a few sparks. "My wife has to take in laundry just to feed herself," he snarled, his voice almost a whisper.

Gorgoth's attitude did not change. "You would use hardship to excuse this?" he asked, lip curling into his own snarl. Vantus's eyes widened in anger, then Gorgoth leaned forward slightly and gave him a look that made Skyrim seem like a tropical rainforest. Vantus took two steps back, then visibly made the effort to stiffen his spine, folding his arms and resolutely staring at Gorgoth's throat, not willing to meet his eyes.

"If you were troops under my command, I would have you publically flogged," said Gorgoth, his voice barely above a whisper. "I do not care for your ranks. I act as Oreyn's enforcer, and thus I carry the authority of the Champion." He paused. "You will leave this place and return to the Guildhall and await me there."

Rellian and Dubok grunted, then looked to Vantus, who was clearly their leader. The Imperial cleared his throat and began to speak, but Gorgoth cut him off with a sweep of his arm. "Move it!" he boomed. "Am I talking to Guildsmen who can obey simple instructions, or slugs from the lowest street worth less than the slime on my boots? MOVE, you witless halflings!" The Orc physically shoved Vantus towards the door, and the Imperial didn't resist; Rellian scurried out after him, and Dubok followed him out at a slightly slower pace, casting a look of both fear and rage at Gorgoth before ducking out of the doorway.

Gorgoth grunted and walked over to lean on the bar. The Argonian behind it heaved a huge sigh of relief, as did most of the patrons. "How much do they owe in drinks, food, damages?" asked the Orc, removing his wallet from his belt. He'd claim it as expenses from Oreyn later, if the Guild implemented such a policy.

"I'd say..." The Argonian frowned, looking around, analysing the damage, hissing in anger at the muddy bootprints. "A hundred drakes," she told Gorgoth, who forked over the coins without hesitation and left without another word.

Gorgoth made his way to the Guildhall quickly, flinging the doors open with such force that they bounced back off the wall. As requested, several cleaning tools, such as mops and sponges, had been placed in the hall. The three Guildsmen in question were in an animated conversation with the two Guildsmen from before. All flinched as Gorgoth stormed in.

"There is a very simple solution to your problem," he rumbled, folding his arms and looking them over critically. "You need work. I will find some for you." Their expressions began to show signs of relief. "However, there is no excuse for your indiscipline," continued Gorgoth, brows drawing down. The three guilty Guildsmen shifted uncomfortably, and the two resident Guildsmen moved subtly away from them. "This Guildhall is filthy," spat Gorgoth, directing his glare at the Imperial and Redguard, who froze. "You three-"Gorgoth motioned to Vantus, Rellian, and Dubok "- will ensure that it is clean by the time I return with work for you. If the work is not done to my satisfaction, you clearly do not deserve anything better than unpaid menial labour, and it will stay that way." He took a step forward, his menacing presence filling the room. Everyone took several steps back. "Do not even _think_ about running and hiding," snarled Gorgoth. He turned on his heel and was gone.

Not knowing exactly who would have work for the Fighter's Guild, Gorgoth followed his instincts and returned to the Five Claws Lodge, where the innkeeper was organising a small army of serving girls, reorganising and cleaning the common room, and the handful of patrons sat just as quietly as they had before. The Argonian glanced up at Gorgoth and glared at his muddy boots, but said nothing. She straightened as he walked up to her.

"Do you know of any people in town who might have jobs for the Fighter's Guild?" he asked. She hesitated. "If those fools don't get any work, I'm sure they'll be back." That got her talking.

"There's not many in Leyawiin who would go to the Guild rather than the Blackwood Company," she rasped, rubbing the purple scales on her throat, deep in thought. "But you might try Margarte." The Argonian pointed towards a middle-aged Nord woman sitting alone at a table, deeply interested in some papers lying on the table in front of her, next to her untouched mug of whatever drink she was having. Gorgoth walked over and sat cautiously down in the chair across from her. The innkeeper winced as it creaked and groaned noisily.

"Can I help you?" asked Margarte, looking up briefly before returning to her papers, which appeared to be lists of some kind. Her broad Nordic accent had been somewhat diluted by living in the south of Cyrodiil for decades.

"I have been told that you might have work for the Fighter's Guild," prompted Gorgoth, leaning his elbows on the table and staring at the top of her head, covered with long hair that was more grey than brown.

Margarte looked up again, and this time did not look back down. "I do not trust the Blackwood Company," she started. "They are too... underhanded for my liking." She frowned. "But if you expect me to hire the delinquents that were tearing this place apart, think again."

"To judge someone solely on first impressions is foolish," rumbled Gorgoth, prompting a frown from Margarte. "They were disillusioned and possibly desperate. I sent them back to the Guild and set them to hard labour, but that will not occupy them for long. Would you want them coming back here and ripping it apart again?" Gorgoth leaned forward, fixing Margarte with a penetrating gaze. She stood her ground, but her brown eyes flickered away from those blazing amber augurs to focus on his chest. "You want something done. I am offering you the tools. Giving them paid work will only help their behaviour."

"I want proof," blurted Margarte. "I want proof that the Fighter's Guild can actually get things done." Gorgoth was annoyed and insulted by the insinuation, but his face never changed as Margarte reached under the table and picked up a small, clay amphora and handed it to him. "Fill that up with ectoplasm, bring it back here, and I'll hire your Guildmates to collect fresh ogre's teeth and minotaur horns," she told him.

Gorgoth nodded and stood, attaching the leather strap on the amphora to his belt and walking out of the Lodge. The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon. Perfect. He was turning to search for the chapel when a voice calling his name stopped him. Wondering how many times he would be recognised in the streets of a city he'd never been to in his life, the warrior-shaman turned.

A tall Redguard, in everyday clothing, was striding quickly towards Gorgoth. The Orc did not recognise him, but he did recognise the Akaviri katana swinging from his hip. Motioning for Gorgoth to start walking in any direction, the Blade increased his pace and fell in beside his fellow Knight Brother.

"I have a message for you from Jauffre," he intoned. "Some of the Mysterium Xarxes has been translated. Reagents are required to open a portal to paradise. The Xarxes indicates that one of these ingredients is the blood of a Daedric Prince; literally, a daedric artefact."

Gorgoth didn't hesitate. "Where is the nearest shrine to Malacath?" he asked, stepping around a deep puddle of murky water off to the side of the narrow street.

"North of Anvil. Someone there can give you better directions. But there are closer shrines than-"

"I am not prepared to sacrifice my religious views when the task can be accomplished without such a sacrifice," rumbled Gorgoth. The Redguard nodded in acquiescence, and, his task completed, melted into the background as inconspicuously as he had arrived. Gorgoth looked around, located the steeple of the Leyawiin Chapel, and headed towards it.

The chapel doors were open, Zenithar apparently welcoming any worshipper at any hour, but Gorgoth did not enter. Instead, he looked around furtively, checked the amphora on his belt, and entered the graveyard located next to the chapel. There were no guards, no townspeople paying their last respects. Perfect. The Orc moved over to the most shadowed part of the graveyard, and began his work.

He moved from grave to grave, muttering incantations in the Orcish language as necromantic magic descended into the depths of the earth, stirring the rotting bones of the dead. Within minutes, ghosts of the long-deceased were starting to appear. They were of no real use; their souls had long since departed for Aetherius, and they had been at peace; they were of no threat. Most just stood still, staring blankly ahead with blank eyes, while others had the energy to mumble a few incomprehensible words. Their silver glow was too weak to penetrate far into the deepening darkness.

Gorgoth moved among them, sending lightning silently coursing through their shimmering bodies. They collapsed into piles of ectoplasm, what little presence they had on the mortal plane departing from it once more. Once they were all gone, Gorgoth removed the amphora from his belt and started collecting the ectoplasm, using telekinesis to lift it off the floor and coalesce into a shapeless, formless, glowing blob that he proceeded to pour into the amphora until it started to overflow. He hammered the cork home and burnt the leftover ectoplasm. Leaving the graveyard five minutes after he'd entered, the only evidence of his ever being there were some deep bootprints in the soft earth.

Margarte was just paying her tab when Gorgoth walked back in, earning another sharp look from the innkeeper for his boots, which were even muddier this time around. The Lodge had been cleaned with military efficiency, and the tables were back in place, apart from the few that needed repairs. Gorgoth walked slowly up to Margarte and held out the amphora. She frowned suspiciously and eased the cork out, peering into the depths of the container. Satisfied, she put the cork back in and attached it to her own belt.

"That was quicker than I thought," she observed, tapping her chin, with a questioning tone.

"My methods caused no harm to anyone, and you have the results you desired," rumbled Gorgoth, speaking truthfully. The souls of the dead had long since passed to Aetherius, and had likely not even noticed the disturbance. "The Fighter's Guild will not go to the dark depths that the Blackwood Company is willing to explore." Gorgoth made no mention that he personally would quite willingly go even further than the Blackwood Company to make sure a job was done. "Hire the Guild, and you will not regret it."

Margarte pursed her lips, then nodded in acceptance. "Tell your Guildmates to report to me at my house at ten tomorrow morning," she told him. Gorgoth nodded and left the Lodge.

The three errant Guildsmen were hard at work when Gorgoth entered the Guildhall. The other Guildsmen were nowhere in sight, probably not wanting to get in the way of their understandably surly comrades, who turned to regard Gorgoth with barely-suppressed anger. Moving around the hall, Gorgoth made a point of looking into dark corners and checking the walls in detail. They'd done a good job of cleaning, but there were still the wings to consider. Gorgoth nodded and turned to the three of them. "Could be better. You will finish cleaning the Guildhall, and then you will report to Margarte at her house at ten next morning. You are to collect fresh ogre's teeth and minotaur horns." He turned and left without waiting for a response. Had he stayed, he would have observed three faces being split by large grins.

Gorgoth reached the stables quickly and readied Vorguz himself; the night ostler was nowhere to be found. Anvil was a long ride away, but the Orc didn't even think about cutting through Elsweyr. What few roads there were would be horrendous, and the jungle would slow him down. He and Vorguz would have to push themselves, especially as he planned to stop off at Chorrol to make his report on the way. Swinging open the stable gate, he led Vorguz out, mounted, and dug his heels in. The stallion sprang forward, a dark shadow disappearing into the night.

* * *

"Are you _sure_ we're not lost, Gnaeus?" It was the thirtieth time in two days that Aerin had asked that question since the group had left civilisation behind at Cheydinhal and struck out into the wild. At times, it certainly seemed that way; the old Imperial was frequently consulting his map and searching out landmarks with dogged determination, but no matter how lost they seemed, every time he would spot a landmark he recognised and claim that they were on the right track. Ilend and Aerin could only believe him.

"For my ear's sake, girl!" snapped Gnaeus. "Of _course_ we're not lost! What put such a ridiculous notion in your otherwise empty head?" The Imperial, mounted on his aptly-named Anvil white, Surefoot, was constantly rising to stand in his stirrups, straining his neck to scan the forest ahead of them. The canopy was thick enough to completely block the sun in places. "I was the best scout in my company. Maybe you should remember that sometimes."

"Well, for one thing, you've never even told us that before," protested Aerin, pouting in frustration. Ilend hid a snigger behind his gauntlet.

"Haven't I?" asked Gnaeus, turning around to regard her critically. "I was sure I did. Bah, you youngsters probably wouldn't remember a thing I told you anyway. Always eager to make rash decisions and rush off to get gutted." He turned back to look where they were going at a walking pace. Any faster, and there was a certainty that a horse would trip over one of the innumerable tree roots or fallen logs.

Grinning widely, Ilend nudged Javelin closer to Firebrand. The Bosmer and the Imperial had been like that all journey, but it never got old. "I think you're just jealous that he knows more about woodcraft and scouting than an average Wood Elf," he prodded, nudging her in the ribs.

Aerin spluttered in indignation and glared up at him. She'd put her cloak in her saddlebags soon after leaving Bruma, and he was grateful for it. "I'm not _that_ self-absorbed, guardsman," she growled.

"So why do I get the sense that you're trying to memorise what he does every time he uses those navigation techniques of his?"

Aerin muttered something incomprehensible and shook her head. She knew he was right. "All I want to know is how he does it, but he keeps thinking he's already told us his life story," she said, keeping her voice low, to no avail.

"Sure, use an old man's senility against him, make him say the same story twice, get a laugh out of it, I know, I know," grunted Gnaeus from up ahead. "Well, here's news for you youngsters: My hearing is still good. Oh, and we're almost there."

Both of Aerin's eyebrows shot up, and she booted Firebrand forward to join Gnaeus, followed closely by Ilend. They were indeed entering a clearing, at the centre of which was an enormous statue of Boethia. The Daedric Prince was portrayed by the sculptor as a tall, elven-looking man, cloaked and wielding a massive battleaxe. His might and power leapt from every crevasse, every curve of the rock. Ilend and Aerin were slightly awed, but Gnaeus treated it as he would a simple lump of rock and promptly dismounted, squinting up at the sun, which was sinking towards the treetops.

"All right, dismount, secure the horses, and we'll set up camp," he ordered, following his own instructions and tying Surefoot's reins loosely to a tree and undoing the straps holding the saddlebags to his saddle.

"Aren't we going to summon him?" asked Ilend, motioning towards the statue as he dismounted.

"All in good time!" barked Gnaeus. "Don't be so hasty, young man, that's how you get killed. Who knows what he'll want you to do?"

Aerin blinked "'you'?" she asked. "Aren't you going to be doing the summoning?" The Bosmer had paused in the act of tying Firebrand to a nearby pine.

Gnaeus snorted derisively. "I'm too old to go running off on some fool errand for a Daedric Prince," he explained. "I'll be staying here and holding the fort while one or both of you runs along and does whatever he wants." The old hermit shrugged. "At least I remembered to bring the sacrifice," he continued, taking a small bag out of his saddlebags and fiddling with the strings. "We're lucky that they had something like this up in that fortress." He weighed the bag in his palm. It was wrapped around an object about the size of his clenched fist. "These are pretty rare, though not so much these days, I guess." Gnaeus barked a harsh laugh.

"Whatever," muttered Aerin, rolling her eyes and dumping her saddlebags and bedroll on the ground, far away from the statue. "I thought there'd be worshippers here."

"Do _you_ see any way of surviving out here?" inquired Ilend, rolling out his bedroll, away from the trees but also a fair distance from the statue. "You yourself said the hunting around here was crap, and I doubt any cultists would be as good with a bow as you are."

Aerin mumbled something indistinct and shifted her bedroll closer to Ilend's. She'd taken his advice about dealing with nightmares to heart and had slept almost on top of him every night, much to the amusement of Gnaeus. The old hermit had flopped down onto his bedroll and was sinking his teeth into an apple almost as wrinkled as he was. Ilend sat down on his own bedroll and rummaged around in his food bag until he found a hunk of bread. He gnawed at it as he watched the sun set, some small rays penetrating the trees before the twilight moved in to dominate the sky. Masser and Secunda drifted into view.

After some time had passed, Gnaeus picked up the small bag once again. "Right, I think this is the way it's done," he muttered, undoing the strings and letting the heart of a daedra fall into his palm. Dark red and ravaged with orange veins, it had been a long time since this organ had been beating within the chest of a daedra, but Gnaeus had insisted that it would suffice. "You'll need to take a dagger –any dagger- and stab this heart at Boethia's feet," he explained, holding the heart out to Ilend, who took it without hesitation.

"Sounds gruesome," observed Aerin as she joined Ilend walking up to the statue. Boethia stared down at them with a frozen, imperious gaze.

"I'll admit, I haven't liked what I've heard about Boethia," muttered Ilend, keeping his voice low as if that would prevent the Daedric Prince from hearing him. "According to a worshipper of Azura who came through Kvatch a while back, he's one of the worst; loves anarchy and deceit, and would never say no to some carnage." Shaking his head, the Imperial laid the daedric heart at the feet of Boethia, then reached up and plunged his dagger into the soft, fleshy organ. There was no blood; it had long since been drained.

For a few seconds, silence reigned. Then a powerful, booming voice tore through Ilend's head. By the way Aerin clapped her hands over her ears, with no effect, she heard it as well. "_Why do you summon me, mortals?"_ asked Boethia, sounding somewhat annoyed. "_You are _not_ of my faithful_." It sounded like he expected an answer, but as Ilend opened his mouth, the Prince continued. "_Tell me... do you hope to be counted among my Chosen?"_ Once again, there was no time for a response. "_One of you will prove yourselves to me. __I shall open a portal for you to one of my realms in Oblivion. Go, and take your place in my Tournament of Ten Bloods. Survive, and you will be rewarded. Fail, and your soul belongs to me._" The dreadful voice faded into a threatening nothingness, and the two mortals sagged, Ilend leaning forward and clutching the statue for support. The daedric heart was gone.

A ripping sound jerked their heads to the left. A shimmering blue veil between two thin pillars of white, twisted rock formed the entrance to Boethia's domain. It was just about big enough to admit one man at a time. Aerin shook herself and started off towards the portal, checking her bristling quiver. "Might as well get it over with," she said, as brightly as she could manage.

Ilend's eyebrows shot up, and within seconds he was standing between Aerin and the portal, arms folded, jaw set. "Aerin, he said one of us," he growled.

The Bosmer smiled up at him. "Exactly," she chirped. "Seeing as I have the power to penetrate any armour in Oblivion, I think I'm best qualified for the job." She tried to move around Ilend, but he grabbed her arm.

"You might have the tools, but I'm the better warrior, and _that's_ what will matter in there," he said, gesturing towards the portal. "This isn't something you can take lightly, Aerin." Looking into her eyes, his face softened slightly. "Besides, I'd rather he have my soul than yours."

A smile slowly spread over Aerin's face. "That's nice of ya to think that way guardsman," she murmured. "But it still doesn't change the fact that you'll have to get Gnaeus to sit on me ta stop me."

"That can be arranged," Ilend shot back, looking around for Gnaeus. The Imperial was watching them with a skewed grin on his face, leaning back against a tree. He muttered something, but made no movement. Ilend growled and shook his head in disgust. "Aerin, once I'm through, you can't follow me, and you know I'll be the first through," he told her. His innate stubbornness was rearing its head, but, apparently, so was hers. "You are NOT going through there."

Aerin glared up at him, then sighed. "Fine, fine, guardsman, you win," she muttered throwing up her arms in surrender. "But... let me wish ya good luck first." Ilend was caught completely by surprise when she placed both hands on his shoulders, reared up on her tiptoes, and kissed him.

His initial shock was swiftly scoured away by the fire that seemed to be running through his veins, his senses utterly overwhelmed. He could _feel_ every part of the Wood Elf, her heart beating furiously against his, her mouth against his... her tongue searching for his. The fires peaked, removing all sense and thought, and slowly, hands trembling, he reached for her.

Then everything went numb.

Frantically refocusing his eyes, Ilend could only watch helplessly as Aerin sheepishly stepped back from him, her face blazing like the sun, but wearing an impish grin. He desperately attempted to move any part of his body, to grab her, but only his eyes were responding, and he was forced to watch as the Bosmer swaggered into the portal, immediately swallowed up by the shifting blue mists. The only sound in the clearing, apart from the blood pounding in Ilend's ears, was Gnaeus howling with laughter.

* * *

**A/N: *grunts* Well, writing that last bit was excruciating. In any case, writer's block is a bloody big pain in the arse when you know what you want to write later, but then get stuck on just a few lines in an earlier section. Which is exactly what hapened in this chapter.**

**Reviews can only help me. In fact, they'll probably help me even more this chapter, because I'm not really all that sure of it. I don't think it's bad, exactly, but I think it could be better in places. Anyhow, don't forget to review, that's the important thing. Have I said that enough?  
**


	23. Risk and Reward

**A/N: Yes, this is a very quick update for me, mainly because I actually wrote something every night. Also, actually liking the act of writing large parts of this chapter helped. Also note that there should be a dash between the 'twenty' and the 'three' for this chapter, but FF doesn't like dashes in chapter titles for some reason. Chapter 22 got 11 reviews... hmm, I think my constant nagging might have paid off. Huge thanks to those who reviewed:**

**Rain's Hand: I wouldn't have called it 'boring' to write exactly, I just didn't feel as good about it. But, you're right, this chapter was better to write. That was one bad typo, fixed it immediately. And I never claimed to be good at writing romance, did I? I'd go as far to call myself utterly horrendous at writing romance, to be honest. But I think 'emerald/sapphire' eyes and the like is just good description.**

**Elder: Yes, it's come a long way. I'm also curious as to where it goes; I'm not even sure if either of them will survive.**

**DarkShadowDweller: Your compliment would be even better received if you hadn't said exactly the same thing, word for word, for Midnight and Brothers in Arms. Yes, they're great fics and deserve praise, but try to be more original.**

**Random Reader: It's been years since I did Boethia's quest, so I'm probably wrong, but I thought the master archer would be the Bosmer. As Aerin's a Bosmer, that automatically means that Boethia's Chosen Bosmer won't appear. And as for Gorgoth's previous crimes... well, you'll find out, but let's just say he won't be going on any pilgrimage. He'd refuse point-blank, unless Martin ordered him to, and I suspect that Martin won't. Gorgoth's word is unbreakable. As for Saliith... read on. :)**

**Kommandant Grim: That's high praise, thanks. And if by 'favourite false god' you mean Vivec... well, in one of my more insane plans, I had him showing up for the Battle of Bruma, but that won't be happening. Still, I do like references...**

**Underpaid Critic: I love most of the Daedric quests as well... shame I can't insert more of them, but that'd get ludicrous eventually. As for the plot-lines... well, much has yet to be revealed. ;)**

**Negative Infinity: That won't happen, for a number of reasons: Dagon is much taller than Gorgoth, so Gorgoth can't reach; Dagon is immortal, so Gorgoth's decapitation would be utterly useless anyway; if Gorgoth DID attempt to kill Dagon, he would use magic; and, finally, Gorgoth isn't stupid enough to assume that he can take on a Daedric Prince in a stand-up fight and live. He's not THAT powerful. And it would be utterly idiotic if he did pull it off.**

**Enough from me. Thanks again to all those who reviewed. On with the chapter:**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-three: Risk and Reward**

Aerin, who had never maintained more than a passing interest in Daedric Princes, had no idea what Boethia's realm was meant to look like. But, upon first entering his realm, still embarrassed over her deception of Ilend, she'd been struck by the similarity of the place around her to the Deadlands of Mehrunes Dagon, with a red sky sundered with black cracks, lava stretching as far as the eye could see, and scorched, parched, dry earth crumbling beneath her feet. However, she wasn't about to question the interior decoration of a Daedric Prince, particularly one who would take possession of her soul if she failed his challenge.

The fourth enemy she'd come up against, a Khajiit, was breathing his last, his life ebbing away, draining out of the wound caused by Aerin's arrow. His light mail armour, covering most of his body, had been of no use, as had the longsword lying a few feet away from his outstretched hand. The Wood Elf had shot him down before he'd come within twenty paces. Lying back the way she had come were three other bodies – an Argonian, a Breton, and an Imperial – who had died in much the same way. She didn't want to get complacent, but this challenge of Boethia's seemed almost too easy. Then again, she doubted that Boethia had known of Trueshot before she'd entered his realm.

"_I wanted some more... entertainment,_" boomed Boethia, his voice resounding within her head. Aerin still winced slightly at the sheer overpowering nature of the voice, but had learnt to not let it affect her. "_I took the liberty of informing those you are about to face of that bow of yours._" Aerin grunted. It would be just like the Daedric Prince to want to spice things up. "_I believe you might even make a good disciple,"_ continued Boethia. "_I was watching, back at the shrine. That was a devious trick you pulled. Worthy of my acknowledgement._" Aerin stopped dead in her tracks and glared at the massive statue of Boethia, standing on its own island, dominating the realm. It was still facing her, just as it had done when she'd entered the realm, despite her moving around it constantly as she passed from island to island.

"_Keep moving,_" instructed Boethia. Aerin felt a flick on her right ear, and she started forward, walking towards the next gate that separated her from the next opponent and his or her own private island. It was much like the Arena. "_I will admit to appreciating the Dunmer more than any other race in Tamriel, but this will be a fair fight. I will not interfere._" As Aerin approached it, the towering, massive obsidian gates swung open, grinding on the stone of the bridge leading over the lava to the next island, which was identical to the last four; rocky, with sparse, blood-coloured vegetation and little cover for those up against a skilled archer.

Unfortunately for Aerin, it would appear that the lightly-armoured Dunmer was also an archer, whipping his composite bow off his back and swiftly drawing an arrow as Aerin sprinted across the bridge. The only previous ranged combatant Aerin had been forced to face was a Breton mage, who had arrogantly assumed that his shield spell would keep out her arrow. But this Dunmer would be forewarned, and he was giving Aerin no time to nock an arrow; she had to dive for cover behind a nearby rock that was barely enough to conceal her body. The arrow glancing off the rock mere inches from her head brought a grimace to her face; this Dark Elf was a good shot.

"Come out, little Bosmer," he taunted, his voice floating to Aerin, carried by the winds that occasionally gusted across the plane. "I promise I won't make it hurt _too_ much..." as far as Aerin could tell, his voice was staying still. He probably had an arrow half-drawn, ready to loose at any movement. The Wood Elf risked a look around the rock. Her head jerked back as an arrow flashed through the air that her head had just vacated, but she'd located his position; just in front of a large, grey rock that had less red cracks in it than most of the rock in this plane. Hoping to not give him any time to reposition, Aerin spun and darted out behind cover on the other side of the rock, leaping into a forward roll as another arrow grazed her heel. She came up with Trueshot ready, drawing an arrow, as the Dunmer frantically dove for cover.

Hissing in frustration as her shot just missed his head, Aerin moved quickly forward as her adversary took cover behind his rock. Now the tables were turned. The Dark Elf put his head around the corner of the rock, saw Aerin aiming at him, and swiftly withdrew back behind cover. Aerin didn't loose. By her estimation, she would be able to close the distance sufficiently to bypass his cover within five seconds.

He had other ideas. Roaring a war cry, the Dark Elf leapt out from cover, drew, and fired, with amazing rapidity. However, Aerin had been prepared for such a move and ducked into a crouch, darting towards a rock, while letting her arrow fly. It took the Dunmer squarely in the throat, and he fell back, his blood spurting out around the arrow, writhing as he desperately attempted to cling to life. His arrow fared better than its user; it glanced off a rock and flew into Aerin's left shoulder.

The Wood Elf hissed a curse and dropped to one knee, glaring at the arrow. It had only taken a glancing blow, and had not even reached the other side of her body, but it was sufficient to partly disable her left arm –a death sentence in the realm of Boethia. Aerin could almost sense the Daedric Prince's bloodlust, eagerly leaning forward to study the wounds of his newest specimen. Gritting her teeth, Aerin grabbed the arrow shaft and yanked it out of her shoulder, barely suppressing a moan of agony as the head left her shoulder, taking flesh and leather with it. She fumbled at her belt, found a healing potion, and drank down the contents so quickly she almost choked.

Tension seeping out of her, Aerin smiled as the healing potion took hold of her body and bathed it in a blue light. She felt her wound seal up, her unmarked pale flesh returning to its original unblemished state. Only a ragged tear in her leather cuirass indicated that there had been any intrusion. Then the Bosmer looked down at her belt and frowned. Then cursed. Then got up and kicked a nearby rock in frustration, cursing once again as she painfully stubbed her toe.

She'd forgotten to stock up on healing potions. Ilend and Gnaeus had carried most of them, and she'd not expected to enter a portal to do Boethia's bidding, or with so little time to prepare. That potion had been her only one. She cursed again. No doubt Boethia was shaking with mirth, if Daedric Princes did such things.

"OK, Aerin, calm down," the Wood Elf told herself, attempting to make her voice less shaky. "You've fucked up, but as long as ya don't get hit, you'll be fine..." A tremulous sigh was ripped from her chest as she squared her shoulders and started off across the island in the direction of the gate in the near distance. "Idiot. IDIOT." Aerin punched herself angrily on the thigh. Even if she got over it, she doubted Ilend would.

"_Having fun, mortal?_" asked Boethia in what seemed to be a mocking tone. Aerin growled for him to shut up. "_I hope you like fighting mages strong in destruction. This particular Altmer was a master of Destruction before his soul became mine._" Aerin rolled her eyes as the gate started to slide open. Great. Just _great_. If Gorgoth was anything to go by, then this Altmer could probably casually turn her inside out, then explode her, whilst eating breakfast. She nocked an arrow and started scanning the slowly appearing horizon.

The fireball appeared out of nowhere; Boethia had neglected to inform her that the Altmer was also apparently quite skilled at Illusion. Screaming random obscenities, Aerin dashed forward as fast as her legs would move as the fireball, as large as a horse, impacted upon the bridge behind her. A wave of hot air pushed her in the back, making her stumble and almost fall, before she reached a rock formation and dove headfirst into them. A frost spell chilled her bones as it crackled over her. Shivering, Aerin crawled on her belly deeper into the formation, hoping to remain undetected. Her hopes were dashed when an alarmingly accurate lightning bolt cracked a rock not two feet from her face. Clearly the mage was using a Detect Life spell.

Leaping to her feet, Aerin ran, in no particular direction, with no particular strategy. She knew that the mage must be _somewhere_; with that in mind, she scanned the landscape relentlessly, and was rewarded when a fireball emerged from a certain spot between several shoots of bloodgrass and a sharp-looking rock. Diving forward to avoid the fireball, Aerin raised herself to a sitting position while still sliding, nocked, drew, and released. Her aiming was wild, and her target was barely visible – merely a shimmering in the air – but her arrow still forced the Altmer to dodge out of the way, betraying his position further. His chameleon spell was less effective on the move. Aerin flipped to her feet, raised Trueshot, and fired, just as the Altmer span to face her. His instincts told him that a shield spell was the best way to deal with the rapidly approaching arrow, and he finished the spell just before it hit.

Aerin's face broke into a triumphant grin as the Altmer appeared, an expression of shock etched into his face as he collapsed, dead, the shaft of Aerin's arrow protruding from his chest, his Illusion and Alteration doing nothing to prevent his downfall. "Not a bad job, if I say so myself," proclaimed Aerin, bending and retrieving her arrow, cleaning it on a cloth she kept for the purpose and slotting it back into her quiver. She'd been unlucky so far; most of her arrows used in this realm lay where she'd left them, unsuitable for further use after sustaining damage.

"_Get on with it,_" reminded Boethia.

Ignoring the Daedric Prince, Aerin was struck by a thought and started rummaging around in the Altmer's filthy robe. After several minutes of fruitless searching, she sighed and threw up her arms in defeat. No healing potions. Boethia's voice once again invaded her skull, insistently urging her to increase her pace, or he'd increase it for her. Not wanting to provoke him, Aerin obediently moved off in the direction of the next gate, the earth crunching under her boots.

"_Be wary of my Nord, mortal. She is quicker than she looks._" Aerin wasn't sure what sound was worse; the Prince's voice reverberating inside her head, or the screech of the gates slowly swinging open. She wondered if the obsidian structures were a universal design in some planes of Oblivion. Angrily, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. She was alone, in a daedric plane, with no healing potions and her very soul at stake: there was no time to be getting distracted by menial things.

Boethia's Nord was nowhere in sight. Wary, Aerin advanced slowly, arrow nocked, eyes darting from rock to rock, constantly on the alert for movement. A few pebbles tumbled down a rock, and she spun and faced it, staring at the offending stones for a full five seconds before shaking herself back to reality. "Calm down, Aerin," she whispered to herself. "Don't get too jumpy..." The sound of her own voice in this hostile realm soothed the Wood Elf.

The Nord appeared suddenly, from behind a tall rock. Clad from head to toe in steel plate armour, and wielding a large, two-handed mace, she seemed physically imposing, and her face was contorted into a snarl as she started sprinting towards Aerin. Boethia had been truthful; she was far faster than her bulky frame and her heavy armour implied. Aerin smirked as she drew her arrow to her cheek. The Nord would die the same way the Imperial had, shot down in mid-charge.

Aerin's smirk slid from her face as the Nord dodged her first arrow. It became an expression of real concern when, closing the distance rapidly, the Nord swung her mace and knocked Aerin's arrow out from the air in front of her. The Bosmer began backpedalling, hoping and praying to any god that would listen - Aedric or Daedric - that her feet would find solid ground every time she moved them. Evidently, having forewarning of the Wood Elf's secret power lent tactical wisdom to Boethia's Chosen. Attempting to steady her aim the best she could while moving backwards, Aerin fired at the part of the Nord she was least likely to miss, the centre of the torso. Her opponent ducked and swerved, but now the range was too short, and a pained grunt erupted from her chest as Aerin's arrow embedded itself in her shoulder.

However, Aerin's victory was short lived, as her back hit a rough stone wall with enough force to bruise her, and she had her leathers to thank that her skin wasn't torn off her back. She slumped sideways to avoid the mace of the Nord, which, despite the weakened swing of its wielder, slammed into the wall with enough force to shower Aerin with rubble. She gritted her teeth as loose rocks slammed into her collarbone, severely jarring her, but she managed to leap away from the wall and turn.

The Nord's own strength was her downfall; her mace had stuck fast in the wall, and her damaged shoulder prevented her from using all her might to dislodge it. Aerin took several steps back while raising her bow, then loosed. The Nord finally ripped her mace free and turned, just in time to see an arrow slam into her temple. She slumped back against the wall, in the same spot where Aerin had almost met her end mere seconds ago.

Aerin lowered Trueshot and winced. She hadn't escaped unscathed; her back hurt every time she moved, and she could tell that her right shoulder was badly bruised. Her collarbone might even have shifted slightly. Due to the lack of healing potions, the Bosmer just had to grit her teeth and continue on towards the next gate. There was no triumphant grin this time. She was hurting too much, and using her right arm to draw an arrow would no doubt be agonising. Only two to go, but she was sure that Boethia had saved his best until last.

"Why didn't I let Ilend go through?" she asked herself, sighing. A twinge of guilt gnawed at her, but she angrily shook it off. There would be time for moping and feeling guilty later; no doubt Ilend wouldn't let her forget this for a long time to come. If she survived. Sighing once again, she realised that she'd have to admit to Ilend that she'd been wrong and he'd been right; he was far better qualified for this than she was. Fighting in the Arena didn't compare. Aerin sincerely hoped that the Imperial wasn't too angry. He _had_ effectively stopped her sporadic nightmares, after all. And he... Aerin angrily forced herself back to the present as Boethia's voiced once again barged into her head.

"_My Orc is a strong one, little mortal,_" he boomed. "_You will struggle to contain him. Nothing as trivial as an arrow will slow him down._" Aerin gulped and hoped that Boethia was just bragging as the gates screeched open.

Scanning the island for danger, Aerin detected several large rock formations that looked like they could be hiding an Orc. Nocking an arrow, ignoring the pain in her shoulder and back, she advanced cautiously, half-crouching, eyes darting. She stayed well away from the larger rock formations; if the Orc suddenly appeared, she wanted some range between them. No matter what Boethia claimed, the Orc would stop pretty sharply if an arrow found his heart. At the very least, he would be easy to avoid as he stumbled around dying. A forceful charge was probably the most likely outcome, given the fact that Orcs were not known for their tactical nous. Something told her that Gorgoth, had he been around, would happily refute that argument.

As it happened, Gorgoth did not need to argue the corner of the Orc. He did it for himself. At the sound of a rock rolling across the dry, cracked earth, Aerin spun to stare at the rock, and immediately looked around for likely places that it could have been thrown from, completely ignorant that the Orc had thrown it far up, over, and above her head, and was emerging from behind his hiding place as silently as he could.

It was his heavy armour that gave him away, clanking as he moved. Aerin spun to regard the leviathan not fifteen paces from her; a mountain of steel plate, he was wielding an enormous battleaxe with a head as large as her torso. No green skin showed under the thick metal, and only his beady yellow eyes were visible, fixed on her with an expression of longing. He wanted nothing more than to bathe in her blood, and it showed. Aerin repressed a shudder as she raised Trueshot. The Orc, his attempt at stealth a failure, roared a tremendous battle cry and launched himself at Aerin, sprinting towards her with axe raised.

In the time it took for Aerin to release her arrow, he had halved the distance. By the time it had pierced his heart, he was just about to bring his battleaxe down upon her. As the life left his eyes, his dying body surged forward, leaving Aerin no room to dodge. His corpse collapsed on top of her, and, acting by instinct, she raised her arms to protect her face as she toppled over. For an instant, the combined weight of Orc and Bosmer rested solely on Aerin's right leg.

Her ankle snapped like a twig.

Aerin's scream would have echoes throughout the realm if the Orc's crushing weight on top of her had not forced the air out of her lungs. She could only croak feebly and flop around as the sheer agony overwhelmed her senses. Somehow managing to wriggle out from under the Orc, she collapsed, cheek pressed against the dirt. Chest heaving, she forced herself to flip over onto her back and hesitantly looked down at her right leg, and immediately wished she hadn't.

The ankle had been cleanly snapped halfway from her knee to her heel, and as a result her lower leg was bent at a sickening right angle. Aerin squeezed her eyes shut, then turned and vomited the contents of her stomach onto the earth. Boethia's voice forced itself upon her, mocking her: "_Is that the best you can do, little Bosmer? I expected better... should I take your soul?_" Aerin felt an unsettling feeling groping at her, and snapped her eyes open. Through a haze of tears and a mind clouded with pain, she saw the next gate, only a short distance from her. "No," she choked, and the terrible fingers touching her soul departed.

"I _won't_ give up," she growled to Boethia, determinedly dragging herself up onto her hands and good knee, starting a slow crawl towards the next gate. Sweat, which had been her constant companion in the realm, was pouring down her neck, her back, her arms in rivers, congealing in places, gluing her leathers to her skin. A weak sob was ripped from her lungs as she realised that she'd probably never see Nirn again. She'd die here, her soul consumed by Boethia. Ilend, Saliith, Gorgoth, Gnaeus, Selene... would they miss her? Or would they merely regard her as just another casualty and move on?

Aerin screamed in frustration and forced herself to stand, hobbling forward awkwardly, using Trueshot as a somewhat unsuitable walking staff, right foot hanging limply inches above the ground. Every step, every movement, was agony, but she was determined not to give up and become Boethia's slave, not when she could escape back to her home. A low moan escaped from her throat at every pained step, but she was moving steadily towards the next pair of gates.

"_My Redguard awaits you. He is skilled and strong._" Boethia paused. "_I doubt he will lose._"

Aerin wasn't in a position to argue. She knew that really all she was doing was prolonging the inevitable, but she refused to admit defeat. Not when there was hope. Gorgoth might say all he wanted about the futility of hope, but she clung to it like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood. Fumbling an arrow out of her quiver, she wiped a shaking hand across her eyes, attempting to clear them as she crossed the bridge.

The Redguard had clearly been informed of her predicament, and, clad in chainmail with broadsword drawn, was waiting for her at the end of the bridge. No emotion showed on his sun-darkened, battle-scarred face as he started slowly walking towards her, swinging his blade lazily. This would probably be one of his easier kills. Aerin stopped, raised Trueshot, and attempted to draw an arrow while standing on one leg. She overbalanced and threw herself to her left to avoid landing on her broken leg. The Redguard kept slowly coming, not reducing or increasing his pace as Aerin attempted to rise from where she'd fallen.

Deciding that Trueshot was, for once, useless, Aerin threw it aside and drew one of her shortswords, rolling onto her back and struggling up into a sitting position. The Redguard darted forward and planted a boot on her right shoulder, pinning her to the ground, forcing her blade down. Gritting her teeth to stop her from groaning at the pain in her already-battered shoulder, Aerin could do nothing but stare up at the man about to kill her. The point of his blade tickled her throat. Sighing, Aerin slowly resigned herself to the fact that she'd doomed herself to eternal death. She'd never see Nirn again. She'd never see the Arena again. She'd never see her comrades again. Ilend's face in particular stood out for some reason; now she'd never get the chance to apologise. A flicker of fire appeared in her eyes. The Redguard drew back his blade, ready to end it.

With a roar, Aerin forced her own blade forward with all the strength she possessed. It sliced through the Redguard's chainmail and tore through his groin, exiting at the base of his spine. Eyes widening at the exquisite pain, Aerin's opponent wavered, giving her time to draw her other shortsword, reach up, and slice off his sword hand, which was unprotected, presumably for better grip. His hand, still gripping the broadsword, dropped onto the bare earth. Aerin swept the stunned Redguard's legs from under him with her good leg, then screeched as she seemed to drown in a lake of agony. The Redguard and his heavy chainmail armour had fallen on her right ankle. Frantic with pain, Aerin withdrew her left blade from his groin and drove both blades into his skull.

Panting, chest heaving, Aerin shoved him unceremoniously off her and sheathed her blades, uncaring about the blood they would be smearing on the insides of their scabbards. She snatched Trueshot from the ground, slowly levered herself up to a standing position, and stood staring at the statue of Boethia through eyes increasingly blurred by sweat and tears, which ran rivers through the dust caking her face. "Well, I won," she whispered. "Now get me the fuck out of here."

"_Go through the gate you will find across this island._" Aerin groaned. More walking. "_A portal there will return you to your realm._" Boethia paused. "_You have done well, mortal._" The words sounded grudging, but they seemed to be genuine.

"Damn right," panted Aerin, bent over like an old woman as she made her slow, agonising way across the island. Back to Nirn.

* * *

Gnaeus had swiftly grown tired of Ilend's repetitive ranting and started to doze, so the younger Imperial was left to restlessly stamp around the clearing, occasionally turning to glare angrily at Boethia's portal. As soon as the Lover's Kiss had worn off, he'd attempted to follow Aerin through, only to fall straight through the swirling blue mist. Only one could enter. His sense of time wasn't at its best at night in the middle of nowhere, but it felt like hours had past. Every time Ilend tried to settle down to eat or sleep, his agitation increased and he was forced to start pacing again, slamming his gauntleted fist into his left palm over and over again.

A decaying branch snapping under Ilend's boot finally brought Gnaeus out of his on-off slumber. "For the love of the Divines, Ilend!" he roared. "You can't change anything by stomping around like a deranged Orc, so sit down and shut up!"

Ilend looked like he was about to respond, then grunted and crossed over to the other side of the clearing, ignoring Gnaeus, and started walking around in a small circle. The old hermit grimaced and rose, stretching, wincing at the crick in his neck. He'd been dozing against a tree, and his head had fallen at an awkward angle.

"I have to admit, I have never seen something so funny in my life," continued Gnaeus, swinging his arms vigorously as he walked up to the statue and casually leaned on its base, staring up at Boethia. "You know, I think this Prince would be proud of her. A nice bit of deceit, there."

"You wouldn't find it funny if you were on the receiving end, old man," growled Ilend, punching a nearby tree in frustration. There was an indignant hoot and a rustling of wings as a disturbed owl took flight. Ilend ignored it.

"Of course not," agreed Gnaeus. "But the fact remains that I was a witness, not a participant, so I can find it as funny as I damn well please." Gnaeus turned, leaning his back against the statue, and gave Ilend a critical look. "You're on edge, and I can see three reasons for that: one, you got utterly outdone by a bloody treehugger; two, you're angry with her; or three: you're worried sick about her." Gnaeus cocked an eyebrow. "Personally, I think it's option three more than the other two I see at work here."

Ilend stomped over to the statue and imitated Gnaeus in leaning on it with his back. "And what makes you an expert on my present emotional state?" he asked icily.

Gnaeus stroked his short grey beard. "Age and wisdom, boy," he said, smiling. "Don't you think I know-"

He was cut off as the blue mists shimmering between the rock arches seemed to darken to solidify. Ilend jerked forward, slowly approaching the arch. Gnaeus stayed where he was, but his right hand strayed to his sword hilt. As a murky shape started making its way through the mist back onto Nirn, anger battled concern on Ilend's face and won easily. Aerin emerged fully from the portal, which vanished behind her, and Ilend stopped dead in his tracks.

The Bosmer standing before him, leaning heavily on Trueshot, could not have been more different than the bright, flighty creature that had entered the portal. Her eyes were dim and exhausted; her face, and indeed her entire body, was covered in a thick crust of dust and dirt. Streaks through the caked grime and blood on her face showed where sweat and tears had cleansed a path. Her armour was ragged and torn in several places, and her right ankle was bent at a right angle, her foot drooping towards the grass. Semi-glazed eyes seemed to stare through Ilend as she attempted to move towards him. Aerin's body failed her and Trueshot slid from her grasp as she toppled towards the ground.

"Gnaeus! Potions!" roared Ilend as he barely caught Aerin in time, rolling her onto her back as gently as he could. "The strongest one, the one with four white bands around the neck!" The Imperial knew that his healing skills, while improving, could not hope to heal such a devastating wound. Gnaeus moved quickly to obey, scrambling over to his saddlebags and hurriedly searching through them.

"Aerin?" The Bosmer merely groaned in response to his voice, in a near-catatonic state. Ilend gripped her right shoulder and repeated her name. This time, her eyes widened and she lurched upward before his restraining hand forced her back down. "Take it easy, Aerin," he told her, hoping his voice was soothing her; it was more likely that he sounded anxious. He certainly felt anxious. His eyes travelled down her right leg, and he winced. "I'm going to have to re-break your leg, Aerin, or it'll fuse like that," he told her, as gently as he could manage.

Aerin groaned. "Just do it," she panted. "I've been through... enough pain... in that realm. A bit more... wouldn't hurt." A wry laugh at her own words quickly turned into a shudder as Gnaeus arrived with the requested potion. Falanu had charged a huge price for it, but apparently the four-band potion would heal even the most deadly of wounds.

Ilend sighed and repositioned himself next to her right foot, kneeling on her left leg to keep it pinned. He nodded to Gnaeus, who shifted the potion to his left hand and knelt on Aerin's arms with his legs. "Scream all you want, Aerin," Ilend told her as he placed his hands just above her right foot. "There's no one else to hear except me, Gnaeus, and Boethia."

"Screw Boethia..." muttered Aerin, sweat once again trickling down her face.

Ilend took a deep breath and wrenched her foot back into place. The sheer agony of her scream and the heaving of her body in response to the operation almost made him drop her leg in shock, but he grimly held on until he was sure it was as close to its original position as possible. Gnaeus removed the cork and shoved the potion into Aerin's mouth. Swallowing instinctively, the rabid look in her eyes faded, and she collapsed, panting, chest heaving. Ilend ran a hand over her ankle and grunted in relief. It felt fine. He'd have to get a few more of those potions from Falanu.

Gnaeus slowly got up and backed away from them, muttering something about not leaving litter at a shrine as he took the empty bottle back to his saddlebags. Aerin raised herself to lean on her elbows, wiping her face and looking surprised when it came away even dirtier than before. She raised her eyes to the Imperial kneeling before her, and before she could speak, he had his arm around her waist, helping her up to a standing position. "How's your leg?" he asked, giving her right ankle an experimental poke with his boot. Aerin walked a few paces.

"Good as new," she said, grinning in delight. "And my shoulder and back are fine, too. How-"

"I don't think Boethia likes to be kept waiting, girl," barked Gnaeus from across the clearing. "Especially when he has to reward you."

Aerin sighed and turned towards the statue, walking slowly towards it. Ilend watched her, unmoving, arms folded. As she reached out a hand to touch Boethia, his voice once again boomed into her head, almost splitting it in two: "_I greet you, Chosen One!_" Boethia seemed genuinely pleased, or at the very least, enthusiastic. Maybe she had given him a good spectacle after all. "_A victory in my Tournament of Ten Bloods brings great honour, no matter how the close the victor comes to dying._" There was a touch of wryness about that statement. "_Take Goldbrand, sheathe it in your enemies, and offer their souls as praise to me._" Aerin raised an eyebrow as a katana appeared at Boethia's feet, the hilt pointed towards her.

She reached out a hand and took it. The dark hilt, made from a hide of some kind for good grip, was pleasingly warm to the touch. The scabbard was also plain, made from simple black leather. Drawing two inches of the blade, Aerin gasped, then drew it fully. Goldbrand flared in her hand, bright as the sun, lighting up the clearing. Flames leapt from the blade, flickering from the guard upwards, the fine golden blade burnished and sharp. Aerin was tempted to give it a few practise swings despite it being too heavy for her, but instead she sheathed it smoothly. The light in the clearing faded, leaving her to blink several times until her eyes had readjusted back to the darkness of night.

Aerin turned slowly and walked back to the centre of the clearing. Ilend hadn't moved, eyes fixed on her, his face as emotionless as rock. Taking a deep breath, Aerin walked up to him and held up Goldbrand. "Take it," she told him. His only reaction was a slight twitch of the eyebrow. "It should have been you emerging from that portal triumphantly, not me," she explained. Gnaeus snorted at her use of 'triumphant'. "I should never have stopped ya going in, Ilend, I... I was an idiot." The words left her in a rush, and she shoved Goldbrand at Ilend.

"Is that your way of apologising?" asked Ilend, his voice flat.

"For the love of the Divines, Ilend, I knew ya had far better chances than me of surviving in there!" snapped Aerin. "I almost _died_ in there, and it was my own sodding fault! It should have been _you_ going through there, winning easily and getting something that might save the Empire. I nearly _failed_!" Aerin sighed and shook her head in disgust. "Just... take it," she muttered.

Ilend reached out and plucked Goldbrand from her grasp, slotting it through his sword belt with barely a glance. "It's not mine," he told her. "It's Martin's. We won't be seeing this for much longer." He folded his arms once again. "You seem to regret your decision."

"Ilend, I had my leg broken, half the skin on my back ripped off, my shoulder almost dislocated. I was taunted by a Daedric Prince, I took an arrow to the shoulder, and I had a blade at my throat." Aerin almost rolled her eyes, then thought better of it. "All my pain could have been avoided if I'd just done the sensible thing. Of _course_ I regret letting my foolish pride get the better of me."

Ilend raised an eyebrow. "Boethia seems to have knocked some self-awareness into you, at least," he observed. "It's good that you regret it. It was just about the most idiotic thing I've ever seen. Not only did you put yourself in danger, you might have endangered the very fate of Nirn." His words seemed to be cutting deep. Good. "You went in there and needlessly risked not only your life, but your soul as well. Risking that when you don't need to is something only a fool would do. And if you'd died in there, I-" He cut himself off. Best not to go down that route. Aerin was already hanging her dirty head in shame. Putting a comforting arm around her shoulders was tempting. Very tempting. A light snore drifted over from where Gnaeus had laid out his bedroll.

Sighing, Ilend shook his head. "And to think that you prevented me from carrying out the same task with much less risk... well, I should be very angry with you, Aerin, and I should be making you feel the recriminations for this for weeks to come." Describing the Bosmer's expression as mournful would not do it justice. "But..." Ilend growled, starting to hate himself. A Watch Sergeant couldn't afford to be soft like this. "You obviously know how badly you failed and, despite myself, I. Just. Can't. Stay. Angry. With. You." The words were forced out between gritted teeth. In his years in the Watch, such weakness would have been severely punished by Savlian Matius.

"Don't worry, Ilend. I doubt you could make me feel much worse that I already do," mumbled Aerin, still downcast. He'd never seen her this dispirited before. It almost made him feel guilty.

Ilend raised both eyebrows. "Oh, I reckon I could," he told her. His anger was abating now. He'd given her the requisite bollocking, however limited it might have been. "I do have one question." She raised her head fully to look at him questioningly. "Did you have to kiss me that deeply?" Her stunned expression made keeping a straight face difficult.

"Uh... I..." Ilend could tell that Aerin was blushing even under the grime coating her face as she awkwardly toed a line in the grass with her foot. "Well..."

"I ask only because whenever my ex-lover kissed me like that, it was almost certain that some vigorous action would take place in the bedroom." It was now impossible for Ilend to hide his smirk.

"No," grunted Aerin, attempting a glare, her the few streaks of untouched pale skin on her face radiating heat like the sun. Ilend was surprised that the entire clearing didn't light up like it had for Goldbrand. "A light brush on the lips would have been enough. Should we get some rest? I think it'll be a hard journey back."

"So, you were just trying to find out how I tasted?" probed Ilend, accompanying her back to their bedrolls. "You could have just asked, you know."

"You're not going to drop this, are you?" asked Aerin, exasperated.

"No," confirmed Ilend. "It will be brought up at the most inopportune moments you can think of for the next year or so. Think of it as punishment." Aerin groaned and flopped down onto her bedroll. "If you're thinking of sleep, look in a mirror first," advised Ilend. "You look like a Redguard." It wasn't much of an exaggeration.

Aerin frowned and looked down at herself, apparently noticing for the first time that she was covered in dust, dirt, and congealed, dried blood. A look of disgust came across her face as she started removing her armour. "Gnaeus said earlier that there was a small spring in that direction," said Ilend, pointing off into the forest. "Wash there. I'll stay awake until you come back." Aerin grunted her thanks and hurried off in the indicated direction.

Ilend let out a long, slow, relaxed sigh and laid back on his bedroll, hands behind his head. The hilt of Goldbrand poked him in the ribs, but he ignored it. He smiled. Savlian Matius had always told him to prepare for the worst. Aerin was still alive. The worst had not happened. That was good enough for Ilend Vonius.

* * *

The morning was bright in the Imperial City. Clouds loomed on the horizon, but the sun was surrounded by clear sky, and the wind was warm for mid-autumn. Normally, Saliith would have been up an hour ago, but, as it was, he had just completed his routine stretches that he always did upon waking. His room at the Merchants Inn was not fancy, but it had everything he needed; a fair-size single bed, a few large windows, a carpet, a bedside table, and a small, plain wardrobe. The cost per night was negligible, given that he was now earning for one fight what most average citizens earned in weeks. His armour lay on the bed, ready to be donned. The Argonian had a bloody day ahead of him. A date with destiny, some might call it.

After heading downstairs and eating a small breakfast, Saliith started off towards the Arena. A handful of citizens in the throng of the Market District recognised him, calling out to him, using his Arena names. He acknowledged them with a short nod, never slowing his progress towards the Arena. His armour was gleaming in the sun, having been polished yesterday, as well as given a maintenance by Gin-Wulm. The shortswords swinging at the Argonian's hips had been given a similar treatment, and a fine array of the best throwing knives he could afford bristled from their belt on his upper back.

Upon reaching the Arena, Saliith slowed his pace, taking the time to look around the grounds before entering the Bloodworks. He heard one of his names being called, and he gave a short wave in response to Huzei and Neesha, waiting in the queue to get into the Arena. Agronak gro-Malog noticed Saliith, stared at him for a few seconds, then grunted to himself and hurried off down into the Bloodworks. Saliith took one last look around the grounds, at the gladiators training, the fans queuing, and the guards keeping some semblance of order. He affixed the sight in his mind, then turned and entered the Bloodworks.

The familiar atmosphere, heavy with blood and sweat, washed over him as he made his slow way down the steps and across the training area, absently ducking under swords and dodging arrows. Near the Blue Team ramp, Owyn was handing a gladiator his winnings. Saliith squared his shoulders and marched up to the Blademaster, who folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, regarding the Yellow Team Hero stonily.

Saliith stopped mere inches from the Redguard, fists clenching and unclenching at his side. Green eyes locked onto brown. "I challenge you to a duel to the death," rasped Saliith, his voice emotionless.

The Argonian hadn't been speaking quietly, and activity in the area immediately surrounding them ceased abruptly. Slowly, as word was passed around, all practising, sparring, and relaxing in the Bloodworks stopped, and all eyes turned to the Hero and the Blademaster. Agronak was nearby, leaning on a wall, arms folded.

Owyn's brown eyes hardened even further, if that was possible. He said nothing, but his eyes left Saliith's and travelled over the Bloodworks, over the watching gladiators, eventually falling upon Agronak. The half-Orc gave the slightest shrug of his shoulders. He would not influence any decision here. Owyn turned back to Saliith. "Throwing down the gauntlet to avenge that old friend of yours?" he asked, his lip curling into a sneer. "How pathetically sentimental of you. Give me ten minutes to prepare. Ysabel will inform the announcer and change the schedule." With that, the Redguard jerked away from the wall and walked off to his 'office'.

The silence hung over the Bloodworks for a few more seconds, then the activity resumed once again, though this time there was a lot more talk and a lot less sparring. Agronak walked over to Saliith. "Are you ready for this?" he asked. "Owyn might have retired long ago, but he was still an undefeated Grand Champion, and he's deadly with a blade."

"No time like the present," replied Saliith. "Now is just a good a time as any. Let's just hope I've prepared enough." The Argonian loosened his swords in their scabbard and ran his hands over the impressive array of throwing knives on his back for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.

Agronak turned to leave, then paused. "For what it's worth, I wasn't happy that he pitted you against Branwen," he grunted. "Making a public spectacle of that disgusted me." The half-Orc hesitated. "Good luck." He turned and walked off towards the steps leading to the gladiator viewing area.

Saliith sighed and settled back to wait. A handful of gladiators attempted conversation, but he wasn't in the mood for idle talk, and sent them back to their training. He guessed that the gladiator viewing area would be packed; it wasn't often a non-scheduled match happened, let alone one involving the Blademaster. It took a few minutes before Ysabel Andronicus, the formidable Battle Matron, appeared and ordered him up the Yellow Team ramp. Saliith took one last, lingering look around the Bloodworks before obeying, marching past the Basin of Renewal and up the blood-soaked ramp for what might be the last time.

The atmosphere in the amphitheatre of the Arena was tenser than normal; it was almost tangible, like a crowd holding its collective breath. Clearly, word had got out. Saliith slowly made his way to stand just behind the iron bars. As expected, the gladiator viewing area was crowded, with many gladiators jostling for a better position. Agronak held an uncontested position at the front, leaning on the railings. The Blue Team cage was empty; Owyn had yet to arrive. That didn't stop the announcer surging to his feet. Saliith actually listened with more than half an ear this time: the fat Imperial was going on about the 'throwing down of the gauntlet' and 'a match never seen before in a lifetime' and other poetic drivel.

Eventually, Owyn appeared across from Saliith. As expected, the Blademaster had removed his everyday light iron armour and donned a heavy suit of steel plate armour, complete with helmet. The sun reflected off the burnished metal, and it clearly had never been used before, but, despite that, it looked purposeful. It fitted Owyn like a glove. The Redguard had not held back with the weapons; on his left hip was a long steel mace, counterbalanced by the scimitar on his right hip. On his back was a massive claymore that looked like it had been forged by the Dwemer. The tension increased as the gladiators glared at each other from across the Arena.

After a few more seconds of speaking, the announcer flopped down into his chair. The gates screeched open. Saliith and Owyn slowly marched towards the centre of the Arena, eyes never leaving each other. They stopped ten paces apart. Saliith's eyes had been devoid of emotion ever since he entered the Arena, and, despite his habitual foul temper outside the Arena, Owyn's face was equally unreadable. He'd been a gladiator for far too long to let his emotions affect him on the sands.

"I'll admit, I never thought I'd be out here again," grunted Owyn, peering around the Arena. Large parts of his face were obscured by his helmet, but his eyes and mouth were easily visible. "Seems you took that fight all too personally. The first mistake I'd ever seen you make, pondscum." Owyn turned back to Saliith. "You made your second one a few minutes ago back in the Bloodworks. It might be your last one, but I like to think you'll make your last mistake out here." The Redguard's lip curled upwards slightly before he turned and walked five paces back. Saliith did the same.

The roars of the crowd intensified as Saliith's shortswords flew from their scabbards and he charged at Owyn, who had drawn both his scimitar and his mace, an unusual combination, but one that could easily be deadly. Saliith leapt at Owyn, swinging for his head and neck. Both swords were blocked, but Saliith used his momentum to flip over Owyn's head, spin, and stab at his exposed back. Owyn rolled forward to escape from the danger, no mean feat in heavy plate armour. It was as though the man had been born wearing it.

Saliith launched another attack, using his greater mobility to his advantage. Shimmying left and right, he stabbed at Owyn's right leg and left arm. The Redguard was too experienced to fall for any feinting and blocked both, his mace forcing Saliith's shortsword aside and tearing through the air mere inches from the end of Saliith's snout. The Argonian swung up at his opponent's mace arm, but Owyn moved back, and the blade missed the joint and merely bounced off the steel. Owyn darted in, aiming a stab at Saliith's stomach, but the Argonian twisted to one side and ran his blade across Owyn's ribs, using the Redguard's momentum against him. He winced when the only result was a screech as the shortsword gouged a line across Owyn's cuirass, failing to penetrate. Kicking the Redguard in the back of the knee, Saliith attempted to stab him in the back of the neck, but Owyn managed to spin while still kneeling and smashed Saliith's blades aside before rolling backwards onto his feet.

The combatants eyed each other warily. Blood had yet to be drawn, but the crowd were on the edges of their seats nonetheless. Saliith once again went on the offensive, the speed of his attacks forcing Owyn back across the Arena. The Redguard's mace was slow to move to block, and Saliith spotted an opening on the right. He threw his blade point-first into the sands, whipped out a throwing knife, threw it, and had his blade back in his hand before it impacted. Owyn dodged in time, however; instead of piercing his eye, the knife merely slashed his cheek open. The Blademaster snarled and charged the Argonian, but Saliith merely dodged and danced out of the way, eluding the Redguard, wearing him down using his superior mobility. Owyn might be able to move quickly in the plate armour that afforded him excellent protection, but even he could not hope to catch an Argonian wearing light scale armour.

"One hit and you're dead, pondscum," growled Owyn, frustration not yet evident in his voice. "Just... stay... still..." His lip curled even further as Saliith ducked under a slash and slammed his blade into the side of Owyn's helmet, stunning him momentarily and allowing the Yellow Team Hero to exploit the tiny gap between his left pauldron and cuirass. The cut wasn't deep, but it meant that Owyn was bleeding from two places, whereas Saliith had not yet been touched. The crowd was in full voice, bellowing for more blood.

Owyn fell back, but Saliith gave him no time to rest, going on the offensive once more. The Redguard's long mace gave him greater reach, but he could not effectively block with it with one hand, and several times only his armour saved him from losing a limb. Growing tired of being pushed into a corner, the Blademaster stepped forward, locked blades, and trapped Saliith's right shortsword just below the head of his long mace. "I think it's time I stopped giving you false hope," he snarled. He planted a boot firmly into Saliith's chest, sending the Argonian staggering back, looking up just in time to dodge the mace the Owyn threw at him. He had to leap to the side to avoid the Redguard's scimitar, and turned back to him just in time to see him draw his claymore.

The ancient, mighty sword, forged millennia ago by the Dwemer, was a formidable weapon, with a thick, double-edged blade only slightly shorter than Owyn himself. A small smile flickered over the Redguard's face as he settled into a combat stance and beckoned to his opponent. Saliith took a step forward and sent two throwing knives flying at him. Owyn dodged one and the other deflected harmlessly off his cuirass. Charging forward, Saliith attempted to duck under the claymore, but he had to crouch so low that it was easy for Owyn to kick him on the chin, sending him sprawling backwards. Owyn moved in, and Saliith flipped to his feet and backpedalled rapidly in order to avoid an overhead slash.

Now it was Owyn's turn to force Saliith back, the sheer reach of the claymore meaning that the Argonian couldn't get close or get around the flanks of his opponent. Any throwing knives were dodged, deflected, or simply bounced off the Redguard's armour. The claymore was too heavy for Saliith to block, yet Owyn managed to wield it so precisely that he was never in any danger of overbalancing. He might not have stepped onto the sands for decades, he might have aged, but he was still the lethal swordsman who had retired undefeated. Saliith, with at least twenty years less experience, was an upstart in comparison.

It didn't take Owyn long to draw blood; he shifted his positioning in mid-swing and Saliith's dodge meant that the Dwemer blade only sliced the front of his thigh instead of cutting his right leg off. The crowd roared their approval as the Argonian's blood started dribbling onto the sands. Despite being eager for a counterattack, Saliith forced himself to stay calm; any rash movement would play right into Owyn's hands. Instead, the Argonian kept on the defensive, slowly moving back and dodging, ignoring the pain in his leg, exerting himself as little as possible. With his heavy armour and weapons, Owyn would be tiring more quickly, no matter how fanatically fit he was.

The Blademaster sensed this and pushed harder. The fury and force of his attacks increased until Saliith was bleeding not only from his thigh, but a slash across his ribs and a gash on his left calf. Owyn showed no signs of tiring. A smile flickered onto his lips as he sensed Saliith weakening. Snarling, Saliith threw himself to the ground, forcing himself under the swinging claymore, and spun as though break dancing. Owyn hadn't anticipated such a move, and his jump to dodge Saliith's flailing legs came a split-second too late; Saliith's feet caught his left foot and sent him tumbling face-first onto the sands. Despite his injuries, the Argonian quickly flipped to his feet.

Owyn, sensing that he wouldn't be able to drag his heavily-armoured body to its feet quickly enough, instead turned onto his back, just in time to parry Saliith's twin stabs. The Argonian launched into a flurry of attacks, each stretching Owyn's blocking capabilities to the limit. Being flat on his back, the Redguard was at a severe disadvantage. He couldn't get up, as Saliith would pounce upon any opening, and his efforts at kicking his opponent's legs from under him came to nothing; Saliith was too fast.

Eventually, ignoring all personal safety, Owyn lurched his torso upwards and swung with all his strength at Saliith's legs. He wasn't expecting the spry Argonian to flip over him and stab at the back of his neck. Falling to one side to avoid the blow, Owyn felt hot blood trickling down the back of his cuirass; snarling, he rolled on to his stomach and attempted to propel himself to his feet, but Saliith kicked his legs from under him and he collapsed, claymore trapped under him. Saliith tore the Redguard's helmet off and raised his right shortsword high, preparing to end it, but Owyn rolled to his left, then rolled again, and again, until he'd built up enough momentum to deposit himself n his feet. He overbalanced and staggered backwards. Saliith darted in and relentlessly struck at Owyn's claymore, eventually ripping it from his grasp.

Owyn bellowed with fury and launched himself at Saliith, ignoring the throwing knife embedding itself in his cheek and slicing his tongue in two. He crashed into the Argonian, bearing both of them to the ground, with Owyn's hands wrapped around Saliith's throat. Unable to speak, with a red mist descending over his eyes, Owyn threw all rational thought out of the window and squeezed as hard as he could, repeatedly kneeing Saliith in the ribs, and ignoring the Argonian frantically groping for his throwing knives.

With his vision narrowing and black specks floating in front of his eyes, partially obscuring Owyn's bloody, ruined face, his ribs creaking under the weight of the Redguard, Saliith finally managed to wrench a throwing knife from his back. He reached up and plunged it into Owyn's temple. The Redguard's grip on Saliith's throat loosened as he collapsed, like a puppet with its strings cut. Saliith groaned as his battered body bore the full weight of the heavily-armoured Redguard. A handful of roars erupted from the crowd, but most were unsure of who had actually won; both combatants were still, and at that distance, it was impossible to distinguish Argonian blood from human blood. The gladiators, however, knew the difference.

Saliith was tempted to lie there for a few seconds, to get his breath back, to get some rest, but his discipline forced him into action. Slowly pushing Owyn's corpse off him, he rose on shaky legs to a tremendous roar. Wincing at the pain in large areas of his body, the Argonian collected his shortswords and limped off to the Yellow Team tunnel. Owyn's corpse lay still. The Blademaster would be remembered as an undefeated Grand Champion and a master swordsman. Saliith could not change that. Nor could he change the fact that Branwen would be forgotten. But now, at least, Saliith could rest easier knowing that he had done what he could. Branwen's indirect killer had shared her fate. And now he could get on with fulfilling their shared dream without distraction.

* * *

Gorgoth rode through the nights, barely stopping for food and rest, driving Vorguz to his limit, and managed to reach Chorrol in three days, just as the sun was starting to set. He planned to make his report to Oreyn, then be on his way to Anvil as quickly as possible. Stabling his exhausted stallion, the Orc made his way quickly to the Guildhall and threw the double doors open.

Oreyn looked up from where he was eating dinner with two Orcs and slowly rose to his feet, still gnawing on a chicken leg held in his hand. "Back so soon, Journeyman?" he observed. "You must have ridden hard. I like efficiency. Report."

Gorgoth resisted the urge to stand to attention and salute. Having been rigorously trained largely by military trainers in his early years, he had an innate sense of discipline that was hard to shake. "The three Guildsmen in question had been forced out of work by the Blackwood Company," he reported flatly. "I managed to find them work and push them back on the rails, but the Company could prove disadvantageous to our operations in southern Cyrodiil." Gorgoth paused. "I also spent a hundred drakes repairing the damage done to a lodge by the aforementioned Guildsmen."

Oreyn grunted and stuck the chicken leg into his mouth, using both hands to wrestle a bag of coins under his pocket and throw it to Gorgoth. "Your expenses, plus a bit," he grunted, removing the meat from between his teeth. "You're not doing badly, Orc," he continued, resting his leg on his chair and leaning on his knee. "You had any past experience at leadership, organised fighting, that sort of thing?"

Gorgoth resisted the urge to smile. "The only time I have truly left Orsinium in my past, before this, was on a military campaign under my father," he began. "I started off leading a company of horsemen. After a few months of fighting, the Battle of the Bjoulsae Delta was upon us. I ended up commanding half the cavalry of the entire army." Gorgoth's eyes softened slightly as he fondly recalled that bloodbath. "Five thousand Orcish heavy cavalry under my command, Oreyn," he said, leaning forward, his voice dropping in volume but increasing in intensity. "Together, each Orc and horse weighs over a ton. When we smashed into the rear of the Bretons, we didn't even have to use our lances at first. Their last three ranks were simply crushed, thrown aside like rag dolls, torn apart under our hooves." Gorgoth straightened, and the feverish light faded from his eyes. "So, yes, you could say I have experience," he finished.

Both of the Orcs at the table were gaping at Gorgoth, mouths hanging open, heedless of the food dribbling out. Modryn merely raised an eyebrow slightly. "Sod Swordsman," he grunted suddenly. "Gorgoth, I'm skipping a rung. You're now a Protector. And I've got another job for you."

Gorgoth tapped a canine. "I have Blades business to attend to," he rumbled. "I had planned to leave for Anvil after making my report."

"Well, the Emperor's dead, so you answer to me ahead of anyone else," growled Modryn, throwing the leg, now devoid of meat, back onto his plate and beckoning for the Orc to follow him up the stairs into his cramped office. The stairs creaked under the Dunmer's weight, and screeched under Gorgoth's. "We'll need privacy for this," explained Modryn as he slammed the door behind Gorgoth.

"This had better be good, Oreyn," growled Gorgoth. "The Emperor may be dead, but I still take other orders from a higher authority than you."

"Whatever. The fact is, I think you're perfect for this assignment." Modryn settled down in his seat behind his tiny desk. The only other features of the room were a small bed and an armour stand, currently hosting a high-quality suit of ebony armour. There was not even a window; the office was lit entirely by candlelight and the cracks of light appearing through the door to the rest of the guildhall. "The current Master is overprotective at times. Ever since her eldest son, Vitellus, died on a contract a month ago, she's been coddling her other son, Viranus, keeping him on barracks duty, not giving him any contracts, treating him like a boy and not a man." Modryn paused to spit. Gorgoth shared his sentiment, but kept his face unreadable.

"Anyhow, I'm going behind her back and getting him some action. It pains me to see that potential locked away." Modryn leaned his elbows on his desk and rested his chin on his interlocking fingers, studying Gorgoth. "I want you to accompany him to Nonwyll Cavern to search for Galtus Previa, an Imperial farmer who's gone missing. Keep Viranus alive and help his confidence some." Modryn slowly rose to his feet. "You'll find him in the Donton house ready and waiting tomorrow morning, just after sunrise. I'll fill him in." The Dunmer reached up to grip Gorgoth's pauldron. "Don't tell the Master about this," he reminded.

"I won't," responded Gorgoth. "I suppose a delay of one day will not hurt me too badly." He turned to leave, then a thought struck him. He turned back to Modryn. "Do you not have badges of rank?" he inquired. "At times, sometimes all we have to go on is our word."

The Dark Elf shrugged. "Word gets circulated pretty fast," he grunted in response. "I'll drop a line to Vilena, see what she thinks. Don't get your hopes up." He pointed at the door. Gorgoth took the hint and walked out.

There were beds on the second floor. Gorgoth removed his armour, shoved it under his chosen bed, and lay down. He'd pushed himself hard on the way here, and it didn't take long for sleep to claim him.

* * *

**A/N: OK, firstly, apologies: Judging from many of your reviews, you wanted the full Tournament of Ten Bloods, which I didn't deliver. Mainly because that it would have pushed the chapter past 15,000 words, but also because Aerin easily mowing down four Chosen would get a tad tedious.**

**The later part of the Saliith/Owyn fight could have been written better, in my opinion, but I struggled to see how I could improve it. Also, there's a time jump, and a big one; three days from Saliith's fight to the next POV, of Gorgoth arriving in Chorrol. I try to avoid them as much as possible, but this one was hard to avoid if I wanted to stop the Arena claiming large parts of the upcoming chapters.**

**Yes, I had Gorgoth skip two Fighter's Guild quests. The reason behind this is that they would take too long: if I did them all, Gorgoth would have to find reasons to visit Anvil and Cheydinhal near-constantly in between Sancre Tor, Miscarand, etc. and he just doesn't have time for that. Hopefully I can still fit in the bulk of the quests.**

**Right, that's it from me. Hopefully I can get the next chapter up quickly as well, but don't expect any miracles, particularly as I have given it no thought and have no idea what happens next. And I can happily say that the milestone of 200,000 words has been breached, a word count far in excess of what I first expected. Thanks again for the vast amount of reviews; keep it up. And if you didn't review... well, now is always a good time to start.**


	24. Power

**A/N: Yes, it's been almost three weeks since my last update. A lot of you are telling me to relax over update rates, but while a delay of this magnitude might be acceptable to you, it isn't to a perfectionist like me. On the other hand, I MIGHT have been delayed by the sheer LACK of reviews. Six in two and a half weeks? I got eleven for Chapter 22. Do I really have to nag you to get you to review every chapter?**

**Random Reader: I always did wonder why some people wore armour 24/7. Surely it'd get uncomfortable. In any case, I doubt there is such a thing as a 'fanboy' in the Orcish culture, but you're right; Gorgoth might just get a couple of extra followers.**

**Underpaid Critic: There WILL be fatalities, and I'm pretty sure I know when they'll happen now. It just didn't seem like the right time. And, generally, I try to explain time jumps as best I can, but sometimes it's hard.**

**Cola: It was exciting to write, and generally that means it's exciting overall. I hope so, at least.  
**

**Advertisement: If you appreciate good writing, check out 'Brothers in Arms' by Arty Thrip. She deserves more reviews than she's getting (Then again, that could be said of every fairly good Oblivion fanfic). In any case, I recommend it.**

**Don't forget to review, unless you want me to incessantly nag you.**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-four: Power**

The morning sun was obscured behind the overcast sky, so the entrance to Nonwyll Cavern looked even less inviting than it normally did. A flimsy, shabby door seemed out of place in a rock formation this far from Chorrol, but it seemed that the cavern had once been inhabited. The rocks were covered in green moss, so much so that the dark grey granite barely showed. A handful of trees populated the area, before thickening out to form the fringes of the Great Forest. The only sounds were of birds singing, of two horses snorting, and of plate armour clanking.

"Trolls are weak to fire, or so I've heard," commented Viranus Donton, checking the bindings that held the steel shield to his left arm. The Imperial was clad in a full suit of steel plate armour that looked like it had just been forged. It had clearly never seen battle. Gorgoth was tempted to make the same observation for the Swordsman himself; not much past twenty, Viranus had yet to shed his outward childish innocence, his brown eyes curious and inquisitive, a sure sign of a man who had not been properly bloodied. His rich brown hair was slicked back over his head, and he wore no helmet, a decision of form over function. Another indicator of his lack of experience. "Oreyn tells me that you can throw a spell or two. That would be useful." His voice betrayed both eagerness and nerves.

Gorgoth grunted as he slid the Akaviri dai-katana smoothly off his back, hefting it with his right hand. A natural right-hander, Gorgoth had relentlessly trained himself to handle anything in both hands, and as such was perfectly ambidextrous, but he found it more natural to fight with his right and cast with his left. Viranus imitated him, drawing his steel longsword with practised ease. He had at least had good training; that much was evident in his posture of readiness, if nothing else. "Don't count on me using any magic, Swordsman," he growled. "We do not need anything other than our martial might to fight trolls. I see no reason to use offensive magic."

Viranus seemed to want to protest, but thought better of it. Wise. Master's son or not, Gorgoth outranked him, and would not hesitate to use that against him. "Let's move," he ordered, taking the lead and kicking open the door. The light barely penetrated the perpetual darkness of the cave, and it became harder to make out anything in the gloom as they descended. Gorgoth held up a hand and a glowing globe of light appeared above his head, lighting up the entire caver, illuminating passageways. Viranus raised an eyebrow.

"I thought you said..." His voice trailed off as Gorgoth gave him a withering glance. He shook his head and fell in behind the Orc as they moved further into the cavern. "Do you think Galtus Previa is still alive?" asked Viranus as the passageway narrowed and twisted.

"That's what we're here to determine," was the gruff response. The passage took another turn then opened out into a small cavern. Gorgoth threw up a clenched fist, signalling a halt. A single troll was in the centre of the cave, whining, it's green-furred, bulky arm thrown over its three black eyes, which were sensitive to the blazing orb over Gorgoth's head, having been in darkness for so long. Gorgoth darted in and disembowelled it, kicking the entrails away as they draped themselves over his boot.

"That's not good," pointed out Viranus. "If there are trolls here, he's unlikely to be alive." He frowned as Gorgoth ignored him, bending and beginning to saw away at the flesh of the troll. "What are you doing?"

"Collecting some of its fat," replied Gorgoth, as though that was completely normal. He took a double handful of the bloody, sticky fat and stuffed it into his belt bag. Viranus wrinkled his nose slightly, then rapidly smoothed his face as Gorgoth turned back to him. "And, in response to your observation, not necessarily. These trolls have not been here long; this cave is remarkably clean and does not smell of troll excrement, like all troll habitats do." Viranus frowned and sniffed at the air; vile odours permeated the atmosphere, but not in significant quantities. Most seemed to be coming from the bleeding wounds of the dead troll in front of them.

"Can we move on?" he asked, somewhat impatiently. Gorgoth nodded and turned, walking swiftly up the passageway, light bobbing up and down above his head in tandem with his steps. Viranus, not a tall man, had to jog to catch up, the clanking of his armour echoing off the narrow cavern walls. Keeping his sword and shield held in readiness was becoming awkward in the narrow passage, but his trainers had stressed that being caught unawares was something best avoided.

The next small cavern was host to three trolls, who recovered quickly from the shock of the light and launched themselves at the Guildsmen, whining and screeching. Viranus blocked the wild lunges of one with his shield and felt the shock of the blows jar his entire arm up to the shoulder. Trolls were stronger than he'd thought. He took a step back, wincing, and sliced its arm off. Howling, the troll turned to run, but Viranus darted in and severed its spine. Gorgoth stepped back smoothly to weaken another troll's charge, then stepped forward, swinging up, slicing the troll open from groin to face. The final troll roared and grabbed at the Orc's dai-katana. Gorgoth kicked its legs from under it, snatched his weapon away its weakening grasp, and stabbed down into the troll's heart.

Viranus frowned at the dent in his shield. It was brand new, never used before in anything other than sparring. Gorgoth, noticing the damage, shook his head and muttered something about poor smithing before leading the way forward. "Try not to block a full-on charge," he advised. "Little can defend against a troll at full speed; block its normal attacks, but dodge its charges. It normally means that it will overbalance." Viranus nodded. It appeared that Gorgoth was far more experienced than the Imperial had expected. He should have known. Those eyes had seen death many times before.

A troll was pawing at the wall up ahead. It turned and immediately whimpered and shielded its eyes, scuttling backwards. Gorgoth threw out a hand, palm outward, while thrusting with his dai-katana. The troll jerked as its body was dragged through the air against its will, impaling itself neatly on Gorgoth's weapon. Casually booting the dead troll off his dai-katana, the warrior-shaman ignored Viranus's praise at his unexpected, unique usage of telekinesis and moved on. "Didn't want that one alerting the others in the cave," he grunted in explanation.

"Well, the element of surprise is a pretty valuable tool," agreed Viranus. Gorgoth shot him a sidelong glance.

"The element of surprise is the most powerful weapon that can ever be wielded," he grunted. "Using surprise, the lowliest slave can kill a king." The Orc's amber gaze turned fully to lock the young Imperial in its vice. "Do not let that happen to you. Be ready for anything." Viranus swallowed and nodded. Another cavern loomed up ahead of them, Gorgoth's light illuminating numerous lichens and fungi, as well as two trolls.

Both lunged for Gorgoth, who sidestepped and kicked one into the cavern wall, then spun and sliced neatly through bone and tendons to sever the arm of the other. Viranus darted in and sunk his blade through the flesh of the troll that Gorgoth had kicked, sliding through its ribs and finding its heart. The Imperial wrenched his blade free and wiped the thick, stinking troll's blood off onto the body it had come from. Gorgoth had disposed of the other troll and was waiting at the far end of the cavern, seeming to be somehow peering through the rock walls at something. Viranus suspected a detect life spell, but said nothing as they moved on.

A rotten door, almost completely eroded by years of damp and neglect, collapsed at Gorgoth's lightest touch and they entered a larger cavern. Five trolls, alerted beforehand to the presence of intruders, charged towards them, howling and roaring with rage and pain as their eyes were attacked by Gorgoth's light. Viranus, acting on Gorgoth's advice and his own instinct, sidestepped a troll's wild lunge and tripped it over as it stumbled past. He moved in and swung down, cleaving its chest in two.

Gorgoth swung horizontally, slicing a troll in two at the chest, before meeting the charge of one with a drop of the shoulder and a counter-charge. The Orc's sheer strength overwhelmed the troll and sent it skidding towards Viranus, who stopped it with a boot on its shoulder and stabbed it through the face. Another troll attempted to catch the Imperial unawares, only for Viranus to spin and smash it around the head with his shield, stunning it and giving Gorgoth time to grab it with his free hand and hurl it into the last troll. Both fell to the floor, and were still scrabbling pathetically to disentangle themselves from each other when Gorgoth stabbed them both, his dai-katana piercing both of them in one thrust.

"You're... stronger than a troll," gaped Viranus, closing his dropping jaw with some effort.

Gorgoth snorted. "The mountain trolls in the Wrothgarians would use these forest trolls as toothpicks," he replied, contempt lacing his deep voice. His gaze fell upon a corpse that was not a green or hairy, and he moved closer, going to one knee, sheathing his dai-katana. It was an Imperial, killed recently, his body not yet decomposing. His coarse clothes spoke of a farmer, and Gorgoth didn't have to turn out his pockets to know that this was Galtus Previa.

"Damn it," growled Viranus, kicking a nearby rock. "I'd hoped that he would still be alive. Bloody trolls."

Gorgoth fixed the Swordsman with a critical gaze. "I find hope useless," he rumbled. "When your high hopes are dashed, despair sets in, rotting you, eating away at you. Hold no hope, and you will not be disappointed." His gaze dropped once again to the body in front of him. "Trolls did not do this," he observed. "If they had, his body would have been torn to shreds, or eaten. These wounds-" the Orc's thick green fingers traced several slashes in the farmer's abdomen "- were made by blades."

"You mean he was murdered?" asked Viranus warily, cleaning his blade on a nearby troll and sheathing it, putting his shield back on his back.

Instead of answering, Gorgoth picked up a shield that was lying near the body. Deep scratches and cracks in the steel rendered it effectively useless; one good blow and it would shatter. Turning it over, the Orc's gaze instantly hardened. The insignia of the sword and axe crossed in front of a tree was not one he would soon be forgetting. He hung the shield by its strap from the hilt of his dai-katana as he rose to his feet. "We should get back to Chorrol with all haste," he growled. "I do not like the look of this."

* * *

"In the name of all that is holy or unholy, WHY did it have to snow again?" Aerin shivered and attempted to draw her cloak even tighter around her as she led Firebrand to the Cloud Ruler Temple stables. Upon reaching Bruma earlier in the morning, she'd been horrified to discover not only heavy snowfall but a biting north wind and threatening clouds. Ilend and Gnaeus had shared amused glances the entire way up from Bruma. The Wood Elf's near-death experience in Boethia's realm didn't seem to have dampened her spirits for long.

"Like I told you, just think of that fire in the Great Hall," reminded Ilend as he led Javelin to his stall. "If the mere thought of it warms me, imagine what the real thing will do. I guess it's not working for you." He smirked.

"It just makes me hate this bloody cold even MORE," whined Aerin, rushing through the process of removing Firebrand's saddle. She hugged herself and waited with tangible impatience as Ilend took his time. Gnaeus muttered something about repairing a few scratches on his blade and headed off in the direction of the smithy. Aerin briefly considered following him – it would be warm near the forge, and she needed some new arrows – but Ilend finally finished with Javelin. She grabbed his arm and virtually dragged him though into the Great Hall.

The roaring fire sent waves of heat washing over the pair of them as they shrugged off their cloaks. Ilend checked to make sure Goldbrand was secure in his sword belt, and headed over to where Captain Steffan was warming his hands. The Imperial's face was red with the cold, having evidently been exposed to the conditions for hours while patrolling the perimeter. "The Emperor's in his quarters" he grunted when Ilend put the question to him. "West Wing. You'll know it when you see it. I doubt Baurus and Glenroy leave that door even to sleep."

Upon showing him Goldbrand, Ilend and Aerin were waved through by Baurus, who, despite his stiff back and alert gaze, could not disguise his boredom at self-inflicted constant guard duty. Glenroy, who had the night shift, was sleeping in an adjacent room, despite the fact that it was normally reserved for nobility. Not that nobility would have any reason to visit Cloud Ruler Temple at the present time. Most of the West Wing hadn't been used for years.

As the door swung shut behind Aerin, Martin looked up from intently studying the Mysterium Xarxes. His table was covered from end to end in piles of books that contained subject matter related in some way to daedra. Selene was at the opposite end of the table, scribbling some notes on a heap of parchments, so absorbed in her task that she barely acknowledged the newcomers. Martin, on the other hand, looked relieved to have a distraction from the tome in front of him, pushing his seat back and rising, running a hand over his face and through his hair. "You have an artefact?" he asked hopefully.

In answer, Ilend withdrew Goldbrand from his sword belt and held it out. Martin took it and bared an inch of the blade, eyebrows rising in shock as the sun-rivalling light threw deep shadows across the room. Selene looked up and blinked several times. The Imperial hurriedly sheathed it again. "This blade has slain many a hero over the years," he muttered, speaking half to himself. "Tamriel will be better off without it for a while, if we sacrifice it."

Aerin raised an eyebrow and planted a hand on her hip. "What do ya mean, _if_ we sacrifice it?" she demanded. Ilend inwardly winced at her tone. She clearly didn't know how to address an Emperor, even informally. "I went through hell and back ta get that for ya, and you suggest that we might not even _use_ it?"

If Martin was taken aback by Aerin's indignant attitude, he did not show it as he placed Goldbrand on a clear area of his table. "The messenger sent to Gorgoth said that he was going to the shrine of Malacath," he explained. "I do not doubt that we will get an artefact from him as well. Thus, we'll have a choice of what to sacrifice." The Imperial folded his arms and smiled somewhat gratefully. "That does not, however, dilute your accomplishment in any way, shape, or form. You can be proud of yourself, Aerin; few on Tamriel would willingly do what you have done."

Aerin's expression quickly changed from one of indignation to one of embarrassment. Blushing, she mumbled her thanks while attempting to make herself smaller, determinedly not looking at Ilend, who was hiding a smirk with some success. Fortunately for her, Martin took her reaction as simple modesty and returned to his seat, grimacing as his eyes once gain fell upon the Mysterium Xarxes. "Regretfully, further translation is proving slow going," he growled, his frustration evident. "It will be a while before we can make any headway. What's more, reports have been coming in of Oblivion Gates opening far from any civilisation." The heir sighed. "Watch yourselves out there. It's a dangerous world at the moment. Jauffre is considering sending squads of Blades to deal with gates, but we don't have the manpower."

"What about the Legion?" asked Ilend, unconsciously stroking his sword hilt at the mere mention of Oblivion Gates.

"Divided, and we can't easily get in touch. Chancellor Ocato is somewhat... sceptical of my birthright." Martin's face turned sour; evidently, he didn't appreciate the Chancellor effectively calling him and the Blades liars. "Local forces will have to be sufficient to repel any invasion for now. I hope they're enough."

"We have warning this time," reassured Ilend. "There won't be another Kvatch." The conviction and determination in his voice made it sound like there would not be another Kvatch because he wouldn't let it happen. "Good luck with that." He waved a hand at the Xarxes and offered a jerky, awkward bow before leaving, Aerin hurrying out in front of him.

"So, what now?" asked Aerin as they walked away from the Emperor's quarters. "I can't see much happening around here while he's working on his translation. You know how much I hate boredom."

"I'm heading back to Skingrad for a while," replied Ilend. "Could be a few good contracts to be had, though I'm not hopeful. Still, it's something to do."

"Mind if I tag along? Being stuck here in this cold fortress with a load of boring Blades isn't something I long for." Aerin sounded hopeful.

Ilend sighed. "If I said no, would you kiss me?" he asked, his voice wry.

Once again, a flush was creeping up Aerin's face. For someone so pale, she did blush easily. And brightly. "I might if ya say yes," she muttered, looking anywhere but at him.

"No paralysation, mind," grunted Ilend, finger stroking his upper lip hair – he hadn't shaved in two days – to hide his smirk. "Having that numbing sensation crush my expectations isn't something I want to feel every week." His grin was now so wide that any attempt to hide it would be futile. "I don't want to have to swig down a potion of magical resistance every time you so much look at me with-"

"All right, all right, I get it," sniggered Aerin, nudging him in the ribs. "Are ya ever gonna drop that this century?"

"No," confirmed Ilend as they entered the canteen. "I get an odd kick out of watching you squirm with embarrassment. Nice move with Martin, by the way."

"Hey, what I said _was_ true," pointed out the Wood Elf, flopping down on a bench at a table, and wincing as it creaked under the weight of Ilend and his armour as he sat down next to her. "Are ya gonna let me come or not?"

"Well... I guess I'd have to tie you up and shove you in the basement to stop you following me anyway," muttered Ilend. Aerin nodded, a delighted, triumphant smile plastered across her face. "At least I won't get lonely on the way there." He looked sideways at her. "Besides, your massages are good. I _still_ haven't given you one yet."

Aerin rolled her eyes and got up to head over to get lunch. Ilend scratched his itching chin and followed her. Shaving could wait. Hopefully, Ah-Malz had some work for him in Skingrad. If not... well, at least he knew how to best fill his time.

* * *

"Following the retirement of your previous Grand Champion, the esteemed Grey Prince, a void has been left which will now be filled." The announcer of the Arena was in full flow, his speech more important than normal. For three days, fighting in the Arena had been fairly normal, with fights taking places as usual, but fans had started to question why there was no incumbent Grand Champion. There had predictably been protests about Agronak's peaceful retirement – many had wanted to see his end in a Fight to End All Fights – but this battle would go some way to remove those protests.

"And now, I give you two contenders for the vaunted title of Grand Champion: The brutal, bloody, powerful Yellow Team Champion, Freezing Death!" Inwardly, the announcer grimaced over the name that he deemed completely idiotic. It had never rolled easily off his tongue. "Killer of over a hundred, can she best her opponent today? Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the agile, deadly, masterful Yellow Team Hero, The Green Tornado!" Now _that_ was a better name. The announcer himself preferred the Argonian over the Nord; at the very least, his tongue was a lot less acidic.

Saliith stopped listening to the announcer and loosened his shortswords once again. This would probably be the last time he ever wore his yellow raiment; if he won, he could fight in his own armour as Grand Champion, and if he lost, his naked body would rot away in the sewers. Just like Branwen's had. The Argonian tightened his grip on his shortswords to stop his hands shaking from the anticipation. He couldn't stop thinking: _this is it_. This was the realisation of his dream, of Branwen's dream. She wouldn't share it, but at least one of them would achieve glory, immortality, in the sands of the Arena. If he could beat Hroadis.

The Hero bent and took a fistful of sand, clenching his fist around it. "This is for you, Branwen," he whispered, throwing it back to the ground. "For us." If he won this fight, then after his death in the future, he would ascend to Aetherius, and tell her that dreams truly did come true sometimes.

Forcing all thoughts of Branwen and dreams and glory from his head, Saliith's eyes hardened and he focused his entire attention on the heavily-armoured Nord in the cage opposite. Due to Hroadis's higher rank, he had been forced to use the Blue Team tunnel. It mattered not. Nothing else mattered except his blades and her mace, his speed against her strength. Agronak had helped him by giving him a few hints about the Nord's technique, but any more than some simple advice would, in Agronak's mind, violate the impartiality of the Blademaster. Agronak himself was leaning on the barrier of the gladiator viewing area, which was far more crowded than usual. Due to his ten year career, the half-Orc had kept his Raiment of Valour, and wore it even now.

The announcer finished. Saliith darted out of the cage and raced across the Arena to the roars of the audience. Hroadis had emerged slowly, in a defensive posture, shield up, mace ready, and a snarl firmly planted across her face. By the time she had plodded halfway to the centre of the Arena, Saliith had closed the distance and launched himself at her. The Nord swung her shield at him, but Saliith's jump was pinpoint-accurate, and he used the shield to launch himself further over her head, forward-flipping as he did so and swinging at her head with both shortswords. Hroadis barely ducked in time; one of his blades cut through her flaming red hair, and another cut the back of her neck, not deeply, but enough to draw blood. The Argonian landed and rolled smoothly to his feet, turning.

Hroadis, who had been stunned by the speed and agility of his attack, barely had time to turn before he was on her again, pummelling away at her shield, always threatening to dance around her. An underarmed throw of a throwing knife glanced off the bottom of her shield and almost went through her ankle. Snarling with rage, Hroadis charged shield-first at the Argonian, only for him to trip her, his shortsword stabbing the sands a hairs-breadth from her temple as she rolled back to her feet.

Swinging her mace brought her breathing space, but only momentarily, as Saliith moved in, kicking her shield aside and aiming both blades at her mace arm. Hroadis stepped back, swung her shield up then sideways, bashing the Argonian on the shoulder and knocking him off balance. He was too quick for her to exploit it, however; he stepped back as her mace cut through the air inches from his chest and once again launched himself at her, his blades frenzied as they hammered away at her defence.

Throwing all caution aside and letting her Nordic rage take her, Hroadis swung at Saliith with mace and shield. The heavy steel mace was slow and lacked the reach to drive the Argonian back, so he simply sidestepped and chopped at the Nord's mace arm. Spinning, his opponent smashed her shield sideways into his shortsword, sending it spinning from his hand. Capitalising, she aimed a mace jab at his ribs, only for him to dart inside her arms and sink his remaining shortsword into her stomach. As her eyes grew wide with shock, Saliith drew a throwing knife and slashed her throat open, her hot blood spraying across his face. The Yellow Team Champion fell backwards, glazed eyes staring up at the clouds.

The hysteria of the crowd washed over him, and the announcer proclaiming him as the Grand Champion had to have been the most enthusiastic he'd been for months, but, for Saliith, it was oddly anticlimactic. Heroes and Gladiators had given him harder fights than the Champion. It was her stubbornness, he realised. She had assumed that her method of fighting, with shield and short mace, would be enough to defeat him, but in fact she had played right into his hands. She'd had neither the reach nor the speed to drive him back or break out of her defence effectively. The title of Grand Champion was not bestowed with a glorious battle, but a brief skirmish where one gladiator had been utterly outmatched by the other.

Shaking his head, Saliith let the atmosphere wash over him, driving away rational thought. For the first time in weeks, elation rose within him, and he smiled. Fame and glory was his. The crowd might not know his real name, but they didn't have to. Their fanatical chanting and waving was proof of that. He waved to them as he made his way back down to the Bloodworks.

Agronak and Ysabel were waiting for him, their postures identical; arms folded, leaning casually against the entrance to the training area from the Yellow Team tunnel. The Blademaster wore a small smile, while the Battle Matron maintained her habitual frown. "I guess congratulations are in order, Grand Champion," she said in greeting. "Though, to be honest, I'm surprised the crowds aren't ripping the Arena apart after _that_ performance." The Imperial pursed her lips and spat. On her worse days, she used to match Owyn for spitting.

"What matters is that the Arena actually has a Grand Champion again," reminded Agronak. "Do you want a Raiment of Valour?" he asked Saliith. "As Grand Champion, you can fight in whatever you damn well please, and I doubt you'll be willing to give up that scale armour for something more flashy but not as good, no matter how well-enchanted it is."

Saliith shook his head. "The title is enough for me right now," he rasped. Ysabel opened her mouth, but he held up a hand. "Not yet. I need some time first. I'll be back soon." They both nodded, Agronak in understanding, Ysabel reluctantly. The Argonian walked passed them, through the Bloodworks, ignoring the numerous gladiators who attempted to talk to him, and out into the Arena grounds.

"BY AZURA, BY AZURA, BY AZ-" Saliith had been expecting such an assault by Agronak's ex-fan, and roundhouse kicked him in the gut. He walked on, unconcerned, as the bright-haired Bosmer fell to his knees, clutching his stomach and groaning, yet still managing to gabble senseless words of praise. Hundolin looked terrified, but his two guards seemed unfazed. They'd seen it all before.

It didn't take long for more fans to intrude upon Saliith's desired privacy. He dealt with them more gently than the Bosmer, telling them that they could mob him all they liked later, but for now, he would kill anyone who got within five feet. They gradually got the message and melted away. Eventually, Saliith found himself alone in the training area that he and Branwen had once sparred in. It seemed like an Age had passed.

"I did it, Branwen," he whispered. Fame and glory were his. Wealth, as well. He regretted that his closest friend wasn't around to see it, but they'd always known that only one of them could be Grand Champion. Maybe it was even better this way. Back when they'd been fresh-faced hopefuls, training diligently every day, hoping against all odds that they'd one day be famous... he'd never envisaged it as turning out like this. At the very least, their dream had been realised. One of them had passed into immortality.

* * *

Three days after he'd made his report to Oreyn, Gorgoth entered Anvil just as the sun, barely visible from behind the thick blankets of cloud covering most of the sky, reached its zenith. Stabling the exhausted Vorguz, he made his way through the gates, returning the salutes of the guards, and headed towards the Fighter's Guild. He did not know the exact location of the Shrine of Malacath, but he figured that the Guild would contain scouts and hunters with knowledge of the local area. In the bustling plaza, he did not notice the bitter-looking Redguard caress her longsword and fall in some way behind him.

Walking into the Fighter's Guild, Gorgoth immediately noticed two Guildsmen, Sten the Ugly and Rhano, pummelling the much-dented practise dummies with all their strength. Moving past them, Gorgoth ascended both flights of stairs, returning greetings with a short nod, and walked into Azzan's office. The Redguard looked up, eyes already tired from the mounds of paperwork in front of him, and gave Gorgoth a weary smile. "What can I do for you, Protector?" he asked.

"I need the exact location of the nearby shrine to Malacath," rumbled Gorgoth, not wasting words. "Do you know of anyone in the Guildhall, or in Anvil, who knows of it?"

"You're in luck," confirmed Azzan. "Rhano often heads out alone into the wilderness up and down the coast to stay in shape. Ask him." He picked up his quill and returned to his paperwork as Gorgoth nodded and left.

Rhano was still battering away at the practise dummy with precision and skill when Gorgoth descended the stairs. Upon laying eyes on the approaching Orc, he stepped back, not even sweating, and sheathed his blade. Before Gorgoth could speak, the Redguard pre-empted him. "Were you fighting in the Arena for the Blue Team a while back?" he asked, his voice emotionless.

Gorgoth cast a critical eye over the dark-skinned warrior, and he felt like he recognised him from somewhere. "Yes," he grunted. "Your point?"

Rhano spoke slowly, blue eyes hardening. "I was not there when it happened, but rumours about the Arena spread quickly," he started. "They said that my brother, Rhesus, had been defeated by a large Orcish warrior-shaman using a summoned weapon." The Redguard sighed, but his eyes remained hard. "I always knew he would meet his end when he moved from the Kvatch Arena," he muttered. "He was an expert swordsman, but I knew that one day he'd come up against someone better."

"He was unfortunate," grunted Gorgoth. "I was only in the Arena temporarily, to get money for armour. Your brother was the last life I ever took in that blasted place." The warrior-shaman let forth a small sigh. "If it is any consolation, Rhano, he died well. With honour. I could not have asked for a better opponent." He paused. "He might have been a contender for Grand Champion, had he lived."

Rhano's eyes finally softened, and his grip on his sword hilt loosened as he grunted, fist pounding his thigh. "Always knew it would happen," he repeated. "At least he fell to someone who actually knows what respect is, unlike most of those fetching, money-grabbing fuckers fighting in the Arena." The Redguard leaned back on the training dummy. "You wanted something?" he asked, pushing his personal issues aside.

Gorgoth nodded. "There is a shrine to Malacath nearby," he said. "I need its exact location." The Orc unfolded his map.

Rhano's finger stabbed down to an area due north of Anvil, just south of the start of the delta of the Brena River, near Rihad. "There's an estate just a few miles southeast of it," he explained, going over the area in more detail. "You can't really miss it; it's on a hill, and there seem to be more trees in that area than there normally are on the northern plains of the Gold Coast."

"Can I get there and back before nightfall?"

"If you ride hard. I'd recommend staying the night at the Brina Cross Inn if you get delayed, which I suspect you will." A tiny smirk appeared on Rhano's face as he leaned back. "I won't ask what business you have there. Good luck."

"To you as well, Rhano," grunted Gorgoth, folding up his map and replacing it before nodding in farewell and walking out of the Guildhall.

Within seconds, he was confronted by a Redguard in ragged-looking clothing, but with a fine iron longsword on her hip, which she looked ready to draw. "Are you the Hero of Kvatch?" she asked him in an aggressive voice, as though daring him not to answer.

Gorgoth raised an eyebrow, then realised something. She had the look of someone who had nothing to lose. The gleam in her eyes was not angry; it was fanatical. "If you intend to attack me, then you are very unwise," he grunted, keeping his voice low for now.

Her lip curled into a snarl. Throwing aside any pretence, she raised her right arm and was covered in red sparks as her summoned armour covered her body. A daedric blade appeared in her right hand, and she slashed at him, yelling praise to Dagon, ignoring the shocked screams of passers-by and the immediate alerting of the Anvil Guard. Gorgoth merely sidestepped, grabbed her sword arm, and pulled her towards him, neatly impaling her on the longsword that he'd just summoned. Sparks shimmering around her corpse, the Redguard collapsed as he let the blade fade from existence. The nearby guardsmen had barely moved.

Seeing that the danger was over, the two guardsmen sheathed their blades and slowly walked up to Gorgoth, who was examining the dead Mythic Dawn Agent lying in front of the Fighter's Guild. "Another one?" asked one of the guardsmen, sighing heavily. "There's been two found already this week. At least you took care of that one pretty quick."

The other spat at the corpse. "Fucking pirates," he growled, his voice deep and acidic. "Isolde was one of the worst. Good riddance." His gaze turned to Gorgoth. "No worries about this one, sir," he grunted, stiffening his back. "Just a corpse to haul off the streets. You're free to go."

Gorgoth nodded and walked across the plaza. Slowly, normality was returning to the crowd; the threat had been dealt with quickly and decisively; nothing to fear. Within minutes, it would only be a fact to add to the city's rumour mill. The gate guards would be more alert than normal for a few minutes, then everything would lapse into boredom again. It was something to talk about in the barracks after their shift; nothing more, nothing less. Just another Mythic Dawn sleeper agent meeting their deserved end at the hands of the Hero of Kvatch. Returning the nod of the guard, Gorgoth slipped out of the gates and left Anvil behind him.

It didn't take an experienced horseman to tell that Vorguz was exhausted; the stallion's once-fine mane was limp and his eyes were dull. Gorgoth had been driving him far too hard, and the look in the horse's eye was one of apprehension as his master approached. The warrior-shaman had no idea who had owned his horse before he'd 'borrowed' him from the refugee camp in Kvatch, but they'd certainly had a fine specimen on their hands. Laying a hand on Vorguz's head, Gorgoth let restoration magic flow from himself into his horse, and instantly Vorguz perked up, nuzzling the Orc's hand and impatiently stamping. Much more of this, and the stallion would drop dead mid-gallop, his body unable to cope with the sheer strain of overuse despite constantly being refreshed. He needed good, solid rest, and Gorgoth vowed to give him some as soon as possible.

Easing his horse out of his allotted stall, Gorgoth mounted and dug his heels in. Vorguz sprang forward and, within minutes, was leaving the Gold Road and striking out onto the long, rolling plains of tall grasses that dominated the coast. This was prime horse territory, the largely flat plains making cross-country speed easy to obtain. However, neither Gorgoth nor his horse was built for pure speed, and he was not pushing Vorguz nearly as hard as he could. The horse was named Fortune for a reason; he did not want to spit in the face of providence by killing the stallion through overwork.

Orc and horse made their way north under rolling clouds, passing abandoned forts, tiny hamlets, and sprawling Ayleid ruins. Sparse trees and scattered, low hills dotted the plain. After hours of travel, Gorgoth finally spotted what Rhano had described; a slightly thicker cluster of trees in the vicinity of a small hill. Dismounting and leading Vorguz up the slope, Gorgoth's lips twitched into a small smile as a statue of Malacath rose into view. Chiselled from rough granite, the Daedric Prince was portrayed as a thick, brutish, Orc-like creature, wielding a massive battleaxe, poised to strike. Strength emanated from the shrine.

Three Orcs were present at the shrine, regarding Gorgoth with critical gazes. One approached him as Gorgoth stopped to tie Vorguz's reins to a tree. "Greetings to you, friend Orc," he greeted, speaking in Orcish. Gorgoth nodded to him and returned the greeting in the same language. "You are welcome here. Are you here to worship?"

"I hope to summon," responded Gorgoth, straightening and looking up at the shrine, his face emotionless as always. "I will be ready to do our Lord's bidding. As always." The Orc worshipper nodded and walked away, leaving Gorgoth alone to approach the shrine.

Removing the troll fat from his belt bag, Gorgoth placed it at Malacath's feet and knelt. It did not take long for a response, the booming voice of the Daedric Prince reverberating within Gorgoth's head: "_I greet you, loyal servant_." Malacath seemed pleased, always a good sign. A look of reverence spread over Gorgoth's face; it was impossible not to react when in such proximity to his Lord. "_It was a coward's work that brought you here, Gorgoth; workings of the weak and cowardly, too afraid to face you fairly. My will was that they should be punished. My will was enforced. They paid._"

Gorgoth nodded, feeling the rare sensation of relief. He'd wondered whether Malacath would take him to task for the weakness that had brought him to Cyrodiil. Before he could think on it any further, Malacath spoke again: "_I have a job for you, Gorgoth_," he rumbled. "_My little brothers, my ogres, have been enslaved by Lord Drad._" Malacath's rage was evident; his sheer fury seared Gorgoth's head, forcing him to clench his teeth to keep from wincing. A show of weakness would not go down well here. _"The poxy ash-skin claims he owns them,_" growled Malacath. "_Works them hard in the mines, puts em in chains, makes me mad. Go to his estate. Get my ogres out of there, and Drad will get what he deserves._" Malacath paused. "_Do it now._" His voice and presence faded from Gorgoth's mind, and the Orc straightened. His offering of troll fat was gone.

Turning, Gorgoth walked away from the statue, moving his legs carefully. When in the presence of Malacath, it was hard to avoid a slight shaking of the limbs in even the hardest and strongest of worshippers. Gorgoth made his way over to the nearest priest. "Do you know where Lord Drad's estate is?" he asked. Malacath hadn't been forthcoming with directions.

"To the southeast," replied the priest, pointing in the indicated direction. Through the trees, Gorgoth's sharp eyes could just make out the slate roof of a large house in the distance. A hill hid most of the estate from view, but Gorgoth could make out what appeared to be farmland. A curl of smoke rose from one of the chimneys. "Drad isn't appreciative of visitors," grunted the priest. A sparkle of humour appearing in his eyes indicated that he knew exactly what Gorgoth was going to do, and approved of it. Gorgoth nodded and walked down to untie Vorguz.

The stallion whinnied in protest at being forced to move again – the grass was good here – but a few words from Gorgoth and he started off without further complaint. No doubt the horse could feel the overwhelming exhaustion deep down within him, where Gorgoth's magic had buried it. Vorguz would have to be ridden gently on the way back to Cloud Ruler Temple, and damn the delay; Vorguz was a good horse, and Gorgoth wasn't about to kill him needlessly.

It didn't take long to reach Drad's estate. Stretching out in front of the house was a long, rolling belt of farmland, covering several acres. It wasn't big enough to make enough profit for Drad's kind of living, however; he had to have another source of income somewhere. Gorgoth reached the house and dismounted, tying Vorguz's reins to a fencepost. Patting the horse on the nose to soothe him, the Orc loosened his weapons and marched up to the door, his step determined and his face grim.

The entrance to the house was made through some engraved double doors, finely carved, made of high-quality wood. Gorgoth stopped before them, and, not even stopping to knock, put his boot through them. The power of his kick splintered the wood, and the doors flew open so quickly they banged off the stone walls. Moving in, the warrior-shaman marched quickly through to what appeared to be a large sitting room, where two Dunmer were rising from their seats, alarmed looks contorting their ash-grey features.

Lord Drad was slightly shorter than normal, wearing fine velvets and silk. His wife was similarly attired, in a dress so fine that it would not looked out of place at a high society ball in High Rock. All of this wealth was presumably gained from the enslavement of Malacath's ogres. Gorgoth's lip started to curl, and he savagely repressed his rising rage. Lord Drad's shock quickly turned into anger, despite the fact that the heavily-armoured warrior-shaman was towering over him.

"What is the meaning of this, Orc?" he demanded, hand going to the silver shortsword at his hip. The Dunmer was either bluffing or even more stupid that he looked; with his delicate, powdered skin, finely maintained hair, and soft demeanour, he had clearly never seen battle in his life.

"Shut up!" barked Gorgoth, kicking the table aside. It rolled into the wall and crashed to the floor, splintering in several places. The Orc stepped forward and shoved Drad back into his chair. Lady Drad stumbled backwards, hand rising to her mouth, and Gorgoth glanced at her, a mere look sending her falling back into her seat. Gorgoth turned back to Drad, who attempting to burrow his way into his seat, away from the approaching Orc.

"Malacath does not like it when you take what is his," said Gorgoth, his voice icy. Drad whimpered, unable to tear his gaze away from Gorgoth's cold, harsh eyes, which seemed to be boring into his skull. "You will tell me where you are keeping his ogres, or I will take you and your wife and torture you to death in your own cellar." His voice was emotionless, but his eyes were colder than the most ferocious Wrothgarian winter.

Drad sobbed in despair and buried his face in his hands, a dark wet patch spreading over his silk trousers. "I don't know any ogres of Malacath," he gasped, trembling. Gorgoth reached for him. "But... but I do have some ogres working for me in my mine," he squealed, desperately twisting his seat in order to avoid Gorgoth. It was to no avail; the Orc seized a handful of the Dunmer's shirt and dragged him out of his chair, lifting him so that they could see eye to eye.

"Where is your mine?" he asked.

"At the bottom of the fields," whispered Drad, his eyes wild with fear. "Go straight out of the door of the estate and keep walking; you can't miss the entrance." Gorgoth nodded and casually threw him aside, like he was discarding a rag used to clean his weapon. Drad few across half the room and crashed into a bookshelf. Gorgoth spared half a glance for Lady Drad on his way out. She was curled up in her chair, paralysed with fear. Exactly the reaction he'd hoped for. Those who so openly defied – _insulted_ – Malacath deserved far worse.

Gorgoth left the house and started off through the fields, trampling the crops, hand on his mace. It took a few minutes to walk through the corn field, leaving a swathe of bent and broken stalks behind him, and eventually he was facing a rickety door – out of place, given the perfection of the estate – to Drad's mine. It was locked, but a few good kicks splintered the lock and the battered door swung open.

The mine was lit by several well-placed torches in brackets drilled into the stone walls. Their flickering light was reflected back by the armour on several of the guards who were turning to regard the intruder with suspicion and hostility. Swords rasped from sheathes, battleaxes were hefted, and the sparse furniture of the cavern went flying as Drad's guards moved swiftly to deal with Gorgoth, who was using his mace in his right hand and his dai-katana in his left.

The guards seemed well-trained, but ill-disciplined; mercenaries often were, lured only by the promise of wealth and, in some cases, glory. Working together, they would have been highly effective, but, as it happened, three took the lead, preventing the other four from reaching Gorgoth. Shouts from different throats raised the alarm, but the first seven mercenaries, ranging widely in race from Imperial to Argonian to Dunmer, were already doomed.

Gorgoth, casting without moving his hands, summoned a globe of pure light hovering above his head, bathing the cavern in its brilliant glow. Squinting in an effort to block out the sudden light, the first mercenary, an Imperial, was still struggling to see properly when Gorgoth neatly decapitated him. A Khajiit mercenary shoved the body aside and stabbed at the Orc with a short spear. Gorgoth sidestepped the lunge and smashed the mercenary sideways into his Breton companion. Both fell to the ground, the Khajiit never to rise again, shattered ribs penetrating his heart.

A Redguard roared a war cry as he swung an unwieldy battleaxe at Gorgoth's head. The warrior-shaman ducked and charged forward, butting the guard backwards, then spinning and slicing through an Imperial's chainmail to open up the flesh underneath. An Argonian attempted to stab the Orc in the back, only for Gorgoth to spin backwards and use his momentum to ram his mace up into the lizard's groin. He hit the roof of the cavern before dropping back to the floor, his pelvis and most of his spine shattered. The Redguard tried to attack again, only to find himself gaping stupidly at the dai-katana removing both his arms in a single smooth movement. His head followed a second later.

Two mercenaries were left after less than a minute of fighting. Footsteps rang on the stone floor of the cavern, indicating reinforcements, but the survivors, a Dunmer and a Breton, were exchanging nervous glances. Before they could even contemplate further, Gorgoth was between them, kicking the Breton's legs from under him while shattering the Dunmer's broadsword with a mace swing. After disembowelling the defenceless Dark Elf, the Orc turned and brought his mace down upon the head of the rising Breton, covering the silver head of his mace with blood and grey matter. Gorgoth had barely entered the mine, and already the floor was slick with blood. Bone fragments, bile, and brains littered the floor. Upon sensing reinforcements arriving, the Orc turned to face two startled mercenaries, both Imperial, who had arrived from a passageway.

For all their lack of discipline, the guards were brave. They didn't hesitate in drawing their longswords and moving towards Gorgoth, splitting up to come at him from both directions. The warrior-shaman had other ideas, and leapt at the nearer mercenary, swinging both weapons. His opponent blocked the dai-katana, but his shoulder was shattered by Gorgoth's mace. He fell to the ground, screaming in agony, clutching his shoulder. Gorgoth twisted to face the other guard, but too late; the Imperial's sword sliced across his back. The attack was too weak, and the sword too lacking in penetrative power, for it to break through the steel plate, but it left a significant dent. Gorgoth cursed. He was not wearing his Orcish battle plate; his normal fighting style would be exposing vulnerabilities in his lower-quality armour.

Three more mercenaries – two Dunmer and a Redguard – had joined the Imperial, but all looked shaken at the sheer amount of devastation that had been wrought by this lone intruder. Licking his lips, the Imperial opened his mouth to speak, possibly to bargain for their lives, but Gorgoth struck, dai-katana lashing out like a viper, slicing the Imperial's face in two at the nose. As his body fell, the Redguard vaulted over it, aiming a swing at Gorgoth's neck with his war axe. The Orc threw his dai-katana at one of the Dunmer, not even looking to see if his aim was true, and grabbed the Redguard's arm with his left hand, slamming him down to the cavern floor with enough force to crack his unprotected skull.

The two Dunmer slowly backed away from Gorgoth, throwing their weapons down, looks of terror in their crimson eyes as they surrendered. Gorgoth snorted contemptuously, raised his left hand, and sent lightning coursing through both of them. Surrender was a sign of weakness. As the blackened, burnt corpses collapsed, Gorgoth turned to the sole survivor, the Imperial with the destroyed shoulder, who was frantically crawling towards the exit. A boot firmly planted in his back halted his progress, and he moaned, sobbing in fear.

"Where are the ogres kept?" asked Gorgoth. His mace was bloody, and he ripped a strip of cloth from the Argonian's tunic to clean it.

"In two cages... one down each passage..." panted the guard. "Captain... has keys... please..." Gorgoth grunted and knelt, grabbing a fistful of hair, wrenching the Imperial's head up. His breath coming in short gasps, the wretched mercenary continued to plead for his life. Moving in front of him to get a clear view, Gorgoth placed his mace carefully on the ground and began gouging the Imperial's eyes out. The convulsions of the screeching Imperial almost jerked him out of Gorgoth's grasp, but the Orc was relentless, ignoring the agony of his victim. After digging the eyes fully out, he twisted them to sever the optic nerves, and carelessly tossed them aside. Blood from the Imperial's gaping eye sockets splattered his gauntlets as the Orc dragged the Imperial to his feet and healed his shoulder.

"Leave this place, and forever bear these scars to show others the penalty for defying Malacath," ordered Gorgoth, his voice cold, harsh. The mercenary may only have been working for Drad's gold, but that was no excuse for participating in the enslavement of ogres. Giving the groaning Imperial a push in the direction of the door, Gorgoth picked up his mace and dai-katana, washing blood off the latter, and sheathed them both. A search of the belts of the dead guards revealed a set of keys on the body of one of the Imperials, presumably the captain.

Walking down one of the passageways led to a small cavern, cut in half by a wall of steel bars, each one several inches thick. Squeezed into the small cell were three ogres, their thick grey hides bearing the scars of whips, their hands black from intensive mine work. They grunted in pain and shielded their eyes from Gorgoth's light. He immediately dimmed it; there was enough light to see from the torches. Moving quickly, he unlocked the barred gate and ushered the ogres out. With gleeful expressions, the massive creatures hurried out of the cell, each clapping the Orc on the shoulder with enough force to stagger him, thanking him in grunts. Gorgoth responded with a few words of encouragement in Orcish, but he doubted that they would understand.

Moving back to the entrance cavern, Gorgoth did not follow the ogres as they loped out of the mine into the waiting daylight. Instead, he turned and took another fork, leading to a prison identical to the other. Another three ogres were miserably contemplating another day's labour on the other side, and they staggered Gorgoth in their eagerness to rush past him and join their freed brethren outside. The Orc followed more slowly, and by the time he had left the mine, he could already hear the screaming from the house. His lips twitched into a grim, horrific smile. Drad was finally getting what he deserved. Walking up to untie Vorguz's reins, Gorgoth looked up as a window smashed. Drad had actually thrown himself out of a window in a desperate bid to escape, but an ogre had a firm grip on his belt, and dragged the howling Dunmer back into the room. Gorgoth grunted with satisfaction and mounted Vorguz.

It didn't take long to reach Malacath's shrine, and Gorgoth was soon once again ascending the hill to summon his Lord. The priests seemed slightly surprised to see him return so quickly, but greeted his recounting with harsh laughter and comments about Drad's unenviable predicament. Gorgoth continued on to kneel before Malacath.

"_Good job!_" barked Malacath, his mighty voice painfully exploding in Gorgoth's head. "_No-one owns ogres but ME! Now that maggot is paying for his insolence!_" Malacath laughed, the harsh sound sending waves of pain and ecstasy crashing through Gorgoth's mind. He kept his composure with some difficulty. "_You always have been an effective servant, Gorgoth,_" continued Malacath. "_Take this present. Keep up the good work. Stay strong._" With that, the Daedric Prince faded, his presence leaving Gorgoth's head. The Orc forced himself to his feet, refusing to clutch at the shrine for support. His legs wobbled, and he forced them to straighten.

Lying on the shrine at Malacath's feet was a massive warhammer. Dwemer in design, Volendrung was an ancient, mighty weapon. The enormous head, forged from the finest steel available to the Dwemer, was heavy and designed to be the perfect shape to smash through any armour and crush bone and flesh. Two wicked spikes on each end of the head provided extra penetration. The haft was also steel, with grooves and engravings providing not only pleasing aesthetics but a good grip. Gorgoth placed both hands reverently on the haft and, in one movement, swung it onto his back, slotting it into the same belt that held his dai-katana in place. Despite his appreciation of the legendary weapon, Gorgoth could tell that he wouldn't suit it; it was far too heavy for him to effectively use in one hand, and he disliked weapons that could only really be used in two hands. They limited offensive opportunities. Besides, this weapon had a greater purpose; it would save Tamriel.

* * *

"My master wishes to convey his apologies that he could not attend this meeting in person; he has... business to take care of over the border."

Do'kazirr was relieved when Burzukh gro-Ghash nodded, accepting the explanation. "Time is a luxury," growled the scarred Orc, who was wearing full Orcish plate armour, a massive battleaxe strapped to his back. "It is inevitable that a leader cannot be everywhere at once. I understand your plight." The Khajiit and the Orc were standing in the middle of a large, high-roofed cavern, one of several that dotted the Blackwood. Several of Burzukh's followers, all Orcs, were active, dragging large, heavy chests to the centre of the cavern. Do'kazirr's sole companion was Jo'danirr, who was wearing a robe with extensive tribal symbols emblazoned on every square inch of the cloth. Do'kazirr himself wore his usual leathers, which gave limited protection while not sacrificing any mobility or obstructing his claws. Those who knew him would know that the war axe at his hip was just for show.

"This one is... interested to see what intrigues my master so much," observed the Khajiit as two of Burzukh's burly Orcs dragged another chest across the cavern floor. That made six now, and all were heavy, given the amount of effort the Orcs were putting into moving them.

"I find that simple matters work best," replied Burzukh, his thick Orsinium accent making some of his words hard to understand. His followers straightened, and each took a handle, ready to throw each chest open. "This is more simple than most." The Orc motioned for the chests to be opened.

Do'kazirr managed to keep from shouting in surprise, but he could almost hear Jo'danirr's jaw hitting the floor next to him. Shooting the mage a warning glance, the Khajiit warrior took several steps forward. Each crate was full to the brim with gold, both in bars and septims. No wonder the Orcs had struggled. "This... this is a king's ransom," stammered Do'kazirr. "How much is here?"

"Sixty thousand drakes," Burzukh told him, voice flat. "Thirty more if you bring me proof of the death of Gorgoth gro-Kharz. Double that if you bring him to me alive."

"Where is all of this coming from?" asked Do'kazirr, somewhat incredulous that someone would spend so much to capture or kill just one Orc. There was no possibility that all the money was Burzukh's; he was a soldier, a bandit, not a rich man.

The Orc smiled. "Let's just say that Gorgoth has enemies both high and low in Orsinium." He extended a gauntleted hand. "Do we have an agreement?"

Do'kazirr smiled. His master would be ecstatic.

* * *

**A/N: Well, there it is. Hope it was worth the wait. Don't forget to review. Hopefully, I can get the next chapter up quicker than this one, but nothing's definite, and the extreme levels of coursework at the moment are slowly burying me. As a result, I feel that I could have written some of these sections a bit better... but tell me what YOU think by reviewing. Don't make me remind you again...**

**One more thing: it irks me somewhat when people alert this story, even put it on their Favourites list, without leaving a review. You've read the bloody thing and are interested enough to put it on a list, so WHY NOT REVIEW? I don't understand some people...**


	25. Raising the Stakes

**A/N: I'd have had this up yesterday night, but FF failed to let me edit my fic... can't they do anything right? First the merging of the fandoms, then this delaying nonsense. Idiots... Anyhow, chapter twenty-four was good for reviews (11), which goes to show how inconsistent some reviewers can be... 11, then 6, then 11? I'd prefer people to review ALL the time... still, thanks to those of you who reviewed.**

**Cola: The Adoring Fan often makes me laugh... he's annoying, but a laugh nonetheless.**

**ZWig: Indeed, he has come far from the Arena hopeful that Gorgoth gave a handful of tips to.**

**Quentin: Ah, yes, that was a bit of a spur-of-the-moment addition, but I like it as well. Just make sure your brother reviews as well...**

**Underpaid Critic: I wouldn't call it 'begging', it's more 'demanding'. I write this, people read it... it takes less time for them to write a review than it took me to write the whole thing, so it should be logical. Besides, if they don't offer me advice on how to improve or tell me what they like/don't like, then they have no grounds to complain if I write something they don't like. As for Sheogorath, in the first section of this chapter, it's mentioned in passing that the SI quest IS happening... but it'll always be in the background, I've got no plans to include it directly. Word about that sort of money DOES get around... unless word is unable to get out. And Burzukh and his new ally don't want that kind of publicity, so they simply don't let anyone know. Simples. And if it seems like a bit much... the funder is rich. Very rich.**

**Random Reader: If you think Gorgoth was ruthless there... well, you wouldn't want to think about what he's done in the past. Hmm, true, I can imagine Saliith taking issue with the Count over that, but I doubt Caro would exactly publicise what he does.**

**Nachosforever: Chapter 18 review: No... that's just Gorgoth's blunt expression of his thoughts. His time in the Brotherhood barely affected him. Chapter 24 review: Raw charming evil? Gorgoth? Raw, yes, evil, yes, but charming? I doubt he could ever be called 'charming'... as for Saliith, fear not; if he dies, it won't be without meaning.**

**Duskification: All reviews encourage me. Well, almost all, but yours certainly does.**

**Burz-gro-Khash: Yes, you might be effectively quoting other reviewers... but your opinion is still unique, and I still like to hear you say what you think. As for the swearing, I actually think it makes it more realistic; yes, they're more modern than the time period that TES appears to be set in, but that doesn't mean that they wouldn't be used, given that they speak exactly the same language as us.**

**Hmm, long author's note. The large number of reviews had something to do with it. Keep up that reviewing, people. I want em. Badly. Don't forget.**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-five: Raising the Stakes**

"Doesn't seem to be much going on of interest to us," grunted Ilend. The Imperial was leaning back in his chair at the large table in the Skingrad Fighter's Guildhall, reading the evening copy of the Black Horse Courier. Occasionally, his chair creaked; he'd donned his armour that morning shortly after rising, and hadn't seen the point in removing it, apart from the gauntlets that now rested in front of him on the dark wood of the table. They'd been kept in the Guildhall all day by heavy, pounding rain that had only just eased. "Seems that some vampires got chased out of Bloodcrust Cavern by some vampire hunters," he remarked, turning a page.

Aerin snorted. The Bosmer had her feet and most of her legs resting on the table, tilting her chair back on two legs as she sharpened one of her shortswords. "Vampire hunters actually succeeding for once?" she asked, her voice dismissive. "Mostly they're all pomp and extravagance, with nothing ta back up their big mouths. Reminds me of a few posers we used ta have in the Arena."

Ilend shot her a quick glance, running his eyes over her legs, before returning to the newspaper. "Well, there's always some diamonds in the rough, Aerin," he told her. Another column caught his eye, and his interest increased. "Apparently, a strange portal just appeared in the Niben Bay near Bravil."

Aerin tensed. "An Oblivion Gate?" she asked warily.

"Possibly. It sounds a bit like one. But not the ones we're used to. At least, there's no invasion, and the sky doesn't change." Ilend shook his head. "Probably nothing to do with us." He turned another page.

Ah-Malz walked in, the Argonian Warder shuffling several papers in his scaled hands. When Ilend and Aerin had appeared at the Guildhall yesterday night, he'd given Ilend a sly wink and a nod of approval before greeting them. Fortunately, Aerin hadn't noticed it. "I've got a contract," he announced, throwing a piece of paper down on the table.

Fons Llendo, having just appeared in another doorway, lunged for it, scrambling over chairs, kicking them aside, but he was too slow. Ilend launched himself across the table and slammed his hand down on the contract, seconds before Fons' ash-grey hand descended upon it. The Dark Elf growled something unintelligible and backed away as Ilend slid off the table and picked up the contract, ignoring Aerin's laughing at the unique method of claiming contracts in the Skingrad Guildhall.

Upon reading the thin piece of parchment, Ilend's face fell, and he grimaced. Ah-Malz laughed. "Be careful what you wish for," he rasped, walking out of the room. Fons raised an eyebrow and moved to read the contract over Ilend's shoulder.

"What is it?" asked Aerin, putting down her whetstone and sheathing her sword.

"Bloody night watch," growled Ilend, clenching his free fist as Fons left the room, smirking. "Tamika's been having problems with bandits raiding her vineyards at night and stealing _grapes_." The incredulity in the Imperial's voice was evident. "Who ever heard of _wine_ bandits?" he asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Are ya sure it's not the Surilie Brothers trying ta get a competitive edge?" asked Aerin, swinging her legs off the table and easing herself to her feet, stretching seductively.

Ilend resisted the temptation to admire the view, instead glaring down at the contract. "No, their competition has always been a friendly rivalry," he grunted, crumpling the piece of parchment in his fist and throwing it to the table. "We'll get three hundred drakes when we catch, and presumably kill, these bandits." The Guildsman groaned. "I thought I'd left this sodding night duty behind when I left the Guard," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Aerin swayed over to the window – Ilend couldn't stop his eyes following her movements – and looked out, a smile tugging at her mouth. "Looks like the clouds have finally pissed off," she remarked, withdrawing her head. "The sun must have gone down quite a while ago. Does the contract specify when we start?"

Ilend glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece – there were more clocks in Skingrad than there had been in Kvatch – and grunted. "Tamika said she normally heard the most disturbances around midnight," he said. "It's past eight now, so I guess – wait, did you say 'we'?" Aerin nodded. "Trust me, you would not like guard duty at night, Aerin," warned Ilend, his eyebrows drawing down as he bent to pick up his shield, strapping it across his back. "It's bloody boring and you have to fight to stay awake."

The Bosmer walked up to Ilend and gave him a smile that sent his blood temperature skyrocketing. "This isn't guard duty like you know it, Ilend," she told him. "If we get bored, we find something to do to occupy ourselves." She grinned and moved past him before he could ask what 'something' entailed. Shaking his head, the Journeyman sighed and checked over his equipment. Seven healing potions were slotted through his belt, along with his longsword, dagger, and enchanted wallet. Good enough for an extended goblin hunt, let alone keeping watch for a few bandits.

Ah-Malz walked back in. He seemed to have a sly smirk on his face, but it was hard to tell with Argonians. "Nice catch you got there, Ilend," he remarked, walking over to the window, crossing his arms, and looking out.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," replied Ilend, his expression and tone neutral, as he tightened his belt, his chainmail clinking slightly.

Ah-Malz snorted. "If you say so," he rasped. "Either way, good luck out there tonight, in more ways than one." The Warder turned and gave Ilend a wink. "At least it'll be dry tonight. Have a good one." Hand raised in a half-salute, the Argonian made his exit, returning to his office. Ilend walked out into the hall, where Aerin was securing several healing potions in her belt. She'd taken to wearing quite a few of them after the Tournament of the Ten Bloods.

"Right, might as well get this over and done with," sighed Ilend, swinging open the double doors and leaving the Guildhall. The night air was warmer than usual, a soft breeze tickling the Imperial's cheeks as he made his way towards the West Gate, Aerin following. He was pleased to note that she'd left her cloak behind, presumably in order to allow easier access to Trueshot, slung across her back. The streets of Skingrad were rapidly emptying, as the citizenry made their way home or to their local pubs. Soon, the night shift would be taking over from the afternoon shift. Ilend didn't envy them. Either of them. Skingrad was notorious among guards for its low crime rates and therefore lack of excitement.

Slipping out through the gates, Ilend and Aerin made their way across the road to the entrance to Tamika's vineyard, a sprawling field of grapevines protected by a short wooden fence running all the way around. Ilend swung open the gate and led the way to the small house just inside the entrance, which had light shining from all the windows. The Imperial stepped up and knocked sharply on the door, his chainmail-clad fist rattling the door on its hinges. Muffled sounds emanated from inside and footsteps approached the door until it was swung open by a middle-aged Redguard, whom Ilend assumed was Tamika.

"You're Fighter's Guild?" she asked. Ilend nodded. "Good. Follow me." Tamika brushed past them and started off down the path to the vineyard. She led them along a path to a small rise which overlooked most of the vineyard. "You've got a good view of the entire perimeter from here," explained the Redguard. "Bernadette said she counted three sets of footprints, so you hopefully won't have much trouble."

"This is a good vantage point," observed Ilend as he reached the top of the rise. Standing eight feet above the otherwise flat vineyard, he could indeed make out the perimeter fence in its entirety. "We'll take it from here, Tamika," he reassured her. The Redguard thanked him and departed, leaving the two alone on the tiny hill.

"Nice position," remarked Aerin, flopping down on the short grass, splaying her legs out in front of her, laying Trueshot down at her side. "Means we don't have ta patrol the fence or something agonising like that."

Ilend snorted. "Thank your lucky stars that' it's not raining, Aerin."

"All right, I will." In response to the Imperial's questioning gaze, the Bosmer pointed up at a star formation overhead. "That's the Lover," she told him, pointing out the different stars. Ilend sat down beside her and squinted up at the sky. "Always have been my lucky stars, considering I was born under them. A week until my birthday."

Ilend gave her a sidelong, shocked glance. "Your birthday? You could have told me."

Aerin shrugged. "Never have put much stock in birthdays, ta be honest," she admitted, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. Ilend was growing increasingly thankful that she'd left her cloak in the Guild; under the pale moonlight of Masser and Secunda, her beauty was ever more pronounced. He angrily shook himself and turned his gaze towards the fence. It was never good to be distracted on guard duty. "Not really much of a big thing in Valenwood," continued Aerin, unaware of her comrade's predicament. "And me dad was Valenwood born-and-bred."

"Well, you're in Cyrodiil now. I'll see what I can get you on short notice."

Snorting, Aerin turned to raise an eyebrow at the Journeyman. "Hey, don't kill ya wallet, guardsman," she told him. "I've got Trueshot; I've got me blades; that's all the equipment I'll ever need."

Ilend smirked. "I'm pretty sure I can think of something," he said, running an eye over her before returning to watching for disturbances. Inhaling deeply, the Imperial grunted and worked his neck. "You can never get too much of good country air," he muttered, half to himself. "That said, Aerin, I still think you'll be regretting your decision to join me in a few hours time. Boredom isn't nice."

"Well, sometimes it is good ta just lie out under the stars and relax," murmured Aerin, lying flat on her back, arms behind her head. "Preferably in summer, but this'll do." Ilend grunted and kept up a vigilant watch on the perimeter. Silence fell, interrupted only by the muted sounds of nature as the night deepened.

Two hours passed without incident. Ilend occasionally got up and walked around to stretch his legs, before returning to sit upon the rise. Aerin had fallen into a doze, only to snap awake and frantically swat at herself when a caterpillar started crawling over her stomach, much to the amusement of Ilend. The lights in the vineyard house slowly went out as it emptied, leaving only the stars and moons as illumination. Fortunately the skies remained clear, and Ilend could still make out the perimeter fence quite easily. Unfortunately for him, it was as he'd predicted; undeniably boring, despite the sporadic conversation between the two.

"Are you bored yet, Aerin?" he asked, glancing over at his Bosmeri companion for the first time in ten minutes. She replied with a short grunt, which Ilend took as affirmative. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He paused. "I need a piss. Watch the vineyard for a few minutes." Aerin's head jerked up. "That would involve actually sitting up and watching the fence," remarked Ilend wryly as he walked off to find cover behind the closest grapevines, their leaves gently trembling in the slight breeze.

Aerin raised herself to her knees and started humming tunelessly, mostly to occupy herself but partly to block out the sound of Ilend's chainmail and clothing being loosened. Picking up Trueshot, she ran routine tests on the bowstring, all the while keeping half an eye on parts of the fence. Her eyes pierced the darkness better than Ilend's, but there was still no activity that she could detect. Ilend returned after a few minutes, tightening his sword belt.

"I won't bother asking if anything happened," he grunted, easing himself to the ground. "If you-" a muffled sound from across the vineyard cut him off, and both snapped their heads towards the noise. Shadowy figures were entering the vineyard, climbing over the fence. They were too indistinct to make out individual races, but it was obvious that they were not meant to be there. Face darkening, Ilend loosened his sword in its scabbard, and motioned for Aerin to stay low.

"Move in and try to get a good, clear shot at them," he whispered. "I'll circle round and take them from the other side. Hurry, but stay quiet." Following his own instructions, the Imperial made off at a crouching run, managing to draw his sword without making enough noise to alert the wine thieves. Aerin headed straight for them, ducking through the lines of vines, Trueshot at the ready, arrow nocked.

It only took her a minute to get a good line of sight with the thieves. By that time, they were rapidly shovelling bunches of grapes into large buckets, ignorant of their surroundings. The sight was so humorous that Aerin couldn't resist smirking as she slowly drew an arrow, gently drawing back the bowstring. Wine thieves? There mere idea was ridiculous. Just as she'd lined up a shot, aiming at the head of the thief nearest to her, a blonde-haired Nord in battered iron armour, Ilend burst into sight, sword and shield at the ready, charging towards the shocked bandits. Aerin loosed.

The Nord straightened just as the arrow hit, meaning that it struck the base of his spine instead of the back of his head. Aerin grimaced as he fell forward; she hated missing, though the effect was the same: the Nord was still out of the fight. This fact was unnoticed by his companions, the two Imperials were closing in to deal with Ilend, the moonlight reflecting off their plate armour and steel swords. Aerin grunted and slung Trueshot onto her back, drawing one of her shortswords as she slowly crept forward. They didn't know she was here, and she'd use that to her advantage, now that she couldn't shoot for fear of hitting Ilend.

As expected, however, Ilend was dealing with the threat easily. Both bandits were on the defensive, falling back, stepping around the buckets as the Guildsman attacked with longsword and shield. Swinging at one Imperial, whose lank brown hair was constantly falling across his face, Ilend parried the attack of the other using his shield and barged into him, sending him sprawling backwards over a bucket, which tipped over, spilling ripe bunches of grapes over the ground. The other Imperial moved in and attempted to stab Ilend, but the ex-guardsman was too quick, blocking with his shield and thrusting his blade into the lank-haired man's gut, the daedric steel punching through the low-quality iron with ease. As his opponent's eyes grew wide with pain and shock, Ilend wrenched his blade free and turned to the other bandit.

He was staring up at the night sky with sightless eyes, blood pooling around his slit throat. Aerin was sitting back on her haunches, calmly cleaning her blade on a rag torn from her fallen foe's shirt. Behind her, the Nord was feebly trying to drag himself along the ground, but it was clear that he didn't have long left on this plane of existence.

"Well, that was easy," remarked Aerin, calmly sheathing her blade. "All that waiting for something that was over in less than five minutes?" She shook her head and sighed.

"Welcome to the night watch," grunted Ilend, walking over to the Nord and slitting his throat with his dagger. "Still, at least we can head back to the Guildhall now. Tamika sent her payment to Ah-Malz in advance." The Imperial smirked. "Nice of her. And idiotic. But I'm not complaining."

Aerin straightened and smiled. "Not a bad night's work, then," she observed. "That's a hundred and fifty each for a few hours sitting around. I'll bet that's better value than when you are a guard."

Ilend frowned sideways at her as they started off towards the city. "Aerin, you sometimes earn more than that in ten minutes in the Arena," he said. "I'd have thought this wouldn't count as 'good value' for a bloody gladiator."

"The good company more than made up for that," she told him. He looked down at her, eyebrows raised, and she laughed and nudged him in the ribs, ignoring the chainmail scraping her leather. "Trust me, guardsman, ya don't get much companionship while you're prancing about in a sandpit."

Ilend snorted. "Well, I guess it wasn't as bad as it could have been," he muttered. "You were a lot more interesting to talk to than Merandil, I'll give you that." He snorted again as they approached the West Gate. "I'm not all that tired. You want to grab a beer? I know a good pub near the blacksmith's."

Aerin wrinkled her nose. "You know I don't like beer," she muttered distastefully.

Rolling his eyes, Ilend persisted. "They do serve other stuff, I guess. You could try whiskey, if you want to be knocked off your feet." He smirked at the expression on her face. "Come on, it's not like we actually have to get up at a reasonable hour tomorrow."

"Why do I get the feeling that I'm going to regret this?"

"Because you probably will."

* * *

The morning sun was shining brightly down on the snow-laden Cloud Ruler Temple, but dark clouds were rolling in from the north. More forbidding was the dark red glow just visible between two of the Jerall Mountains, the sky boiling, rent by red cracks.

"That's over in Skyrim," observed Captain Steffan, folding his arms as he and Martin stood on the battlements, looking north towards where the Oblivion Gate would be. "The Nords can handle that easily enough. If they can't, I know there's a sizeable garrison of legionnaires near Riften. They'll close it soon enough."

"I wish I shared your optimism, Captain," sighed Martin. "Another Kvatch could all too easily happen if one of those goes unattended."

"In the middle of a frozen wasteland?" Steffan snorted. "Hardly the place to direct a full-scale invasion force, Sire. No, if they invade, they'll open up a Gate right outside a town. Fortunately, we've been fortunate in Cyrodiil so far." 'Fortunate' was a good word to use: the only other Oblivion Gate opening outside a city had been reported near Chorrol. Gorgoth had been in the area and had closed it without aid. From what Martin knew of the Orc, any aid by the Chorrol Guard would probably have slowed him down. Upon hearing his name being called by a Blade, Steffan gave a quick salute and left Martin alone with his thoughts.

He wasn't truly alone, of course; as ever, his bodyguard – whom at the moment was Glenroy – shadowed him, distancing himself just enough to ensure privacy for the Emperor-in-waiting but close enough to foil even the most reckless of assassins. While Martin still found it disconcerting sometimes, he was rapidly growing accustomed to it, and he was deeply grateful for the feeling of security his loyal bodyguards gave him. Leaning on the battlements, robes occasionally caught by a ferocious gust of wind, the Imperial turned his head away from the red horizon. Right now, Cyrodiil was more than enough to tackle without adding the maelstrom of confusion that gripped the provinces.

His solitude was soon broken by Selene stepping up to lean on the outer wall beside him, hood of her grey cloak thrown back, her loose golden hair blown about by the wind. She was by now used to the second glances she attracted from almost every man in Cloud Ruler Temple. Martin couldn't say he blamed them. He also knew for a fact that she didn't cry herself to sleep at night any more, an encouraging sign.

"I've translated enough to be able to tell that the second reagent will be similar to the first, but at the same time the complete opposite," she informed him. "At times, Dagon seems to be little more than a brute, and sometimes..." she sighed. "It's rambling and incomprehensible."

"Dagon can claim to be many things, but a good author is not one of them, it seems," muttered Martin. He smirked. "Might as well wish he'd used standard Cyrodiilic while we're at it." Leaning forward on the battlements, peering down at the snow-covered landscape stretching out ahead of him, Martin smiled, somewhat wistfully. "If only wishes came true, eh? Kvatch would still be standing. Tamriel would be at peace."

"And you'd still be a priest, leading a simple life," pointed out Selene. "Would you prefer that?"

Martin released a long, slow, sigh. "Well, I could do without these burdens on my shoulders," he grunted. "But who am I to question my destiny?" He shook his head. "Wishing will not change anything. I should listen to Gorgoth more." There had been some talk in the barracks over the Orc's dubious ethics, but Martin disregarded such rumours and instead saw the warrior-shaman as a reliable rock in this turbulent time. At the very least, he gave good advice, and he took his oath seriously. That meant he could be relied on extensively.

"You're right. Living in the past won't change it." Selene grunted. "It took me a while to figure that one out, but it seems so obvious now." The half-elf turned and leaned her back against the wall, ignoring the wind as it tore at her hair even more violently."Do you think we'll get it done in time?" she asked, her voice low. Glenroy had moved over to a nearby brazier to give them some more privacy, but it was clear that she was being careful not to be overheard. "The translation, I mean. The barriers weaken every day."

"They'll hold," replied Martin, hoping that his voice was strong with conviction. "The Dragonfires have burnt for centuries; I doubt their magic will be easy to break down, even for Dagon." He wasn't mentioning the alternative; it was horrific even to contemplate. There mere thought of all Nirn being given the same treatment as Kvatch was enough to give him nightmares. "We won't-"

At that moment, Jauffre came hurrying up, lined face flustered, cloak flapping wildly. He seemed annoyed and angry, punching his left palm with his right fist, armour clanking loudly. "I just got word from Bruma," he growled, walking up to stand beside Martin, glaring at the Jeralls. "An Oblivion Gate has opened outside Bravil. The Guard have contained it for now, but they're the most incompetent in Cyrodiil. They won't hold for long."

"Then we have to send aid," responded Martin immediately, gazing intensely at the Grandmaster. "They need help. Why haven't you sent it already?"

Jauffre appeared to bite back a sharp retort. "We can't spare any Blades," he grunted, forcing his words out through gritted teeth. "There is no legion within marching distance, and the local guards of the cities will not move as long as the threat persists that a Gate might threaten them." The Breton angrily kicked at the thick slab of stone that formed the outer wall. "Bravil isn't going to get much help, unless some foolhardy adventurers try to close the Gate. The Count is a useless drunk and his son is a good-for-nothing skooma addict." Jauffre looked the angriest Martin had ever seen him; the incompetence of Bravil and its apparent doom appeared to disturb him. Maybe he had family there.

Martin was about to argue further when he stopped and clenched his fists, closing his eyes. Memories of Kvatch invaded his mind, unbidden. He snapped his eyes open. He would _not_ let that happen again, not if it was within his power. "Glenroy!" he barked.

His loyal bodyguard was at his side in a second, fist thumping heart in a salute. "Sire?" he asked, posture rigid.

"Go to the stables and ready your horse and a remount for a hard ride. Also, prepare Selene's horse, and a remount for her as well. You will be travelling non-stop until you reach Bravil." Glenroy hesitated for a split-second, eyes flickering from Martin to Jauffre to Selene, then back to Martin. "Now!" barked Martin. Glenroy turned sharply on his heel and ran off in the direction of the stables.

Jauffre attempted to speak, but Martin was already ushering Selene away from the wall, forcing the Breton to fall in beside him. "Sorry to force this upon you," the heir was saying. "But the fact remains that you're the most powerful battlemage that we have at our disposal right now, and you have experience with Oblivion Gates." Selene was staring wide-eyed at the Imperial as he led her through the Great Hall to the Royal Wing, Jauffre following closely, stepping quickly. "You'll need potions as well as your armour," continued Martin. "It's never a good thing to rely on magic alone. You'll probably be able to reach Bravil in under two days. Hopefully, that won't be too late."

As then entered the quarters that Selene had claimed as her own, she spun and faced Martin. "I'm not sure if I'm up for this, Martin," she stammered, looking uncertain as she removed her cloak. "Last time, we..." she took a deep breath and continued hastily. "We went in with eleven, and only I made it out." The harsh reminder of that fateful day had obviously shaken her, and Martin was starting to hate his sudden decision, but an Emperor had to make choices that he didn't like. An Emperor had to be hard.

She still didn't deserve to be treated as a disposable asset. Steeling himself, Martin placed his hands on her slim shoulders and looked into her eyes. "I'm sorry," he sighed. The apology was genuine. "But I wouldn't even think about sending you into a Gate if I didn't have the utmost confidence in you. You're a powerful battlemage, Selene, and you've got a good, solid man at your back. Glenroy is one of the finest swordsmen in the Blades." He squeezed her shoulders harder. "And I _cannot_ deal with another Kvatch," he whispered.

Selene seemed to be about to protest further, but then she slowly exhaled and nodded, a gleam of understanding in her eyes, backing out of Martin's grasp and casting around for her armour. "Gnaeus would have helped," continued Martin, looking down at his hands in bemusement. For some odd reason, they seemed to be shaking slightly. Clasping them together tightly behind his back, he slowly walked backwards towards the door. They were alone; Jauffre must have slipped out unnoticed. "If only he was here and not gone off somewhere, pretending he's a young man again." Apparently, the old Imperial had asked directions to the nearest known den of bandits and had gone off alone with four days' provisions.

"We'll be fine without him, we..." Selene paused in picking up her cuirass and sighed. "I just hope we get there soon enough." Turning to Martin, her gaze was iron. "_I_ don't want another Whiterock," she grated.

Martin nodded. "Good," he grunted. "Get ready as quickly as possible. I'll meet you in the courtyard." She nodded somewhat impatiently. Martin took the hint and made his exit, closing the door behind him.

Someone must have informed Baurus of Glenroy's departure, because he was leaning on the wall in the hallway outside, conversing with Jauffre. Both turned to regard Martin as he stepped away from Selene's quarters. A slow smile spread over Jauffre's face. "I think, Sire, that you are learning how to be decisive," he said, folding his arms. "Much like your father sometimes was. I will admit that I never thought of sending Selene... a good plan."

"I wasn't about to let Dagon ravage another city," replied Martin, brushing past both of them, forcing them to fall in behind him as he walked briskly back down to the courtyard. Glenroy, with the aid of several Blades, was hastily throwing saddlebags onto four horses. He finished, straightened, and saluted as Martin walked up. Looking him in the eye, Martin noticed features about his bodyguard that he'd never distinguished before; his height equal to Martins, his rugged, stocky build, his deep brown eyes that held the weight of twelve years experience as a Blade. Glenroy Varsis had been in the Blades since his eighteenth birthday, and it had been his unswerving and utter devotion to his duty, as well as his impressive skill with his katana, that had seen him serve in the personal bodyguard of Uriel Septim for two years before the Emperor's death.

"Guard her as diligently as you would me," ordered Martin, his voice too low for anyone but Glenroy to hear.

"As you wish it, Emperor," replied Glenroy stiffly, pitching his voice just as low. A Blade appeared from the Great Hall carrying an armful of potions, and with a respectful nod to Martin, Glenroy turned to take them and slot them through loops in his sword belt. Martin stepped back to allow another Blade to attach one final saddlebag to Selene's white horse, which she'd named Dawn. Squinting up at the sun, the heir ascertained that there was about three hours until noon. If they rode hard, with no delays, they might reach Bravil as early as tomorrow morning. If the Guard could hold out... he'd heard that Bravil had a court wizard of much renown and power, but Fathis Aren seemed to spend a lot of his time in his tower south of the city. If he got involved, the Guard might even succeed in closing the Gate, but Martin wasn't about to stake the fate of an entire city of one court wizard's involvement.

Within minutes, Selene appeared in the courtyard, fully armoured, using her glaive as a walking staff. Glenroy started leading the horses down the steps to exit the fortress, and Martin, Jauffre, and Selene fell in behind him. As they passed through the gates – which had been opened minutes earlier – Glenroy and Selene swung into their respective saddles, tying the reins of their remount to their saddles. Before they could move off, Martin took hold of Dawn's bridle.

Looking up at Selene, he sighed. "You might be Bravil's only hope," he muttered. "Ride hard." He paused. "Don't die." A corner of her mouth pulled up in an attempt at a smile, and she reached down and clasped his hand for a few seconds, before releasing him and digging her heels in. Dawn darted forward, snow spraying from his hooves, followed seconds later by Glenroy's Cheydinhal black. Martin and Jauffre stood and silently watched them until they were dwindling specks against the landscape.

* * *

Gorgoth reined Vorguz in gently, looking up at the sky. The sun was descending towards the horizon, partially obscured behind clouds. He calculated that he'd be stopping for the night within two hours. After leaving the Brina Cross Inn four days ago, the Orc had set a slow pace, giving Vorguz much-needed rest, riding him slowly, gently. While impatient to deliver Volendrung to Martin, Gorgoth knew the value of a good horse. The Gold Road was nearing its end, and he would soon have reached the shores of Lake Rumare. Patting the stallion's neck, Gorgoth dug his heels in once more, bringing Vorguz up to a trot.

After a few minutes, the Orc could see a thin line of smoke rising from a location just off to the left of the road. From what he could tell, it was a campfire. Obviously, a traveller had found a good place to camp for the night and had set up. He rode past the source of the smoke without a second glance. Before he had gone a hundred paces, however, a loud, powerful voice broke the near-silence of the West Weald.

"Gorgoth! Gorgoth gro-Kharz! Halt!" The words were shouted in Orcish. Gorgoth turned Vorguz to regard the Orc standing in the road behind him. He wore thick, heavy chainmail that hung from his neck down to his ankles, his feet protected by sturdy leather boots. Attached to a strap pulled tight over his chest was a broad round steel shield, the metal unpainted. A long, heavy steel mace was thrust through a loop on his sword belt, as were several potions. A steel helmet covered his head, with an aventail hanging over his shoulders. The green face under that helmet was one that Gorgoth recognised: the burly, broad-shouldered warrior standing before him was Lurog gro-Brugh; one of Gorgoth's most trusted comrades. A year younger than Gorgoth, he'd served under him as an officer of cavalry, and had later worked together with him several times as a mercenary.

"It is good to see you, Lurog," replied Gorgoth, walking Vorguz back to where Lurog was standing, arms folded. The words were genuine; Lurog was one of the few that Gorgoth would call a friend. Dismounting, the warrior-shaman walked the last few paces and clasped Lurog's hand in greeting, the chainmail and steel plate clanking as they made contact.

"Likewise, Gorgoth," grunted Lurog, a small smile flickering over his blunt features. "I was travelling through Hammerfell when I received word from Orsinium that you were dead. It is good that I never believe rumours. Come and share my fire." The Orc motioned for Gorgoth to follow him to his campsite, located in a hollow. A fine Orsinium-bred black horse, larger and more powerfully built than Vorguz, was tied to a tree with a feedbag tied over its nose. Gorgoth was sure to secure Vorguz to a tree on the opposite end of the hollow.

"I would ask you why you have stayed in Cyrodiil, but I have pressing news," said Lurog, sitting down before the fire, where some venison was being roasted on a spit. Gorgoth took a seat on the other side of the fire, his interest unfeigned. When Lurog said he had pressing news, then that news was, without fail, of vital importance.

The Orcish warrior slowly exhaled before continuing. "You know that Burzukh is in Cyrodiil, of course," he growled. Burzukh had been a friend of Lurog's, but he had shared Gorgoth's view that Burzukh had acted dishonourably. "He never goes anywhere without making waves, these days. But we should be worried, Gorgoth, very worried." Lurog leaned in closer, the flickering fire reflected in his amber eyes. "He is being funded. Heavily."

Gorgoth raised an eyebrow. "How much?" he asked.

Lurog spread his hands. "All I know is what I learnt from a drunk merchant's guard in Rihad," he rumbled. "It is reliable, however. Two wagons just to carry the chests. They were weighed down with gold. Burzukh has nearly unlimited spending power. He could raise an army."

"Has he?" asked Gorgoth.

Shaking his head, Lurog picked up a stick and poked the fire, causing the burning wood to crackle. "No. He hired one. He did a good job in covering it up, but my source is reliable; Shagar was one of the Orcs he brought with him from Orsinium, one of nearly a hundred." Shagar gro-Durug was a cousin of Lurog's. "Sixty thousand in advance, thirty more if your head was brought to Burzukh, sixty if you were brought to him alive."

"Who is he paying?"

Lurog sighed and stood, walking restlessly around the hollow. Gorgoth also stood, but stayed still, with arms folded. "His army is multiracial, but well-armed and well-trained," he said. "There are at least five hundred of them ,though I doubt he will be using many of them to attack you directly; he is not that stupid." Steeling himself, Lurog turned to look Gorgoth in the eye. "I was there, Gorgoth, one of the few survivors in our caravan," he whispered. Gorgoth grunted, and recognition flared in his eyes. Lurog nodded. "Yes. I was there when he gave you that scar."

Gorgoth stepped closer to Lurog, the frozen fires in his eyes burning brighter with intensity. "Lurog, tell me everything."

* * *

"Selene, stop. We need to rest for a while." Glenroy's voice was weary as he reined in Arrow, sweat running down the Cheydinhal black's flanks. The remounts looked little better, having been ridden twice already. Masser and Secunda were bright overhead, and their light reflected off the surface of Lake Rumare, just visible to the north through the trees. They had just reached the start of the Green road, the signpost to Bravil creaking under the weight of the moss staining the age-darkened wood.

"Weren't you listening to Martin?" sighed Selene, running her hands through her hair as Dawn's head drooped, his flanks heaving. "We might be Bravil's only hope."

"Not if our horses die on the way there," replied Glenroy, grunting as he dismounted. "Besides, fighting a war at the end of a tough ride without rest isn't pleasant. We'll rest ourselves and the horses for an hour, then continue." He gathered the reins of Arrow and his remount and walked off over to the side of the road to find a good place for a camp. Selene grudgingly acquiesced and slid off Dawn's saddle, following Glenroy.

"This is a good place," observed the Blade, gesturing at a tiny clearing in the trees. He proceeded to tie the reins of the horses to a nearby tree branch, making sure the grass was soft and plentiful. Selene, doing the same with Dawn and her remount, frowned in puzzlement as the Imperial removed a thick candle from one of his saddlebags.

"What's that for?" she asked, securing the reins and easing herself down, her back leaning against a tree, stretching legs that ached after long hours in the saddle.

"An alarm," replied Glenroy, removing his helmet, revealing close-cropped brown hair covering an angular head. He imitated Selene in sitting with his back to a tree, a few feet away from her. "I'll stick a weighted pin in the candle, and, after an hour, it'll have melted enough to release it, so it'll fall into my hand, waking me up." He removed his gauntlets and placed the candle on the grass beside him, clearing away some dead leaves and making sure the ground was flat.

"And a tiny weight like that dropping into your palm wakes you up?" asked Selene, slightly incredulous.

In response, Glenroy leaned over and show her the pin. The blunt end, which would stick out of the candle, had a large spike pointing downwards, easily enough to penetrate the Imperial's skin. "I think that could wake me up," said Glenroy, a wry grin stretching over his face. "I've used it before. Fortunately, there's barely any wind tonight, nor is there likely to be." He drew a match from a box he'd taken from his saddlebags. "Get some rest," he told her. "We'll both need it in Oblivion."

Selene nodded and closed her eyes, shifting in a futile attempt to get comfortable while sitting against a rough tree wearing full armour. She heard Glenroy strike the match, then the peace of the night returned, interrupted only by the slight grinding of Glenroy's plate armour as he shifted slightly. Accumulated fatigue made itself known, and soon Selene was asleep, head dropping down onto her shoulder.

* * *

A sharp, stabbing pain brought Glenroy's head up, and he was instantly alert, years of training and experience meaning he was ready to deal with any danger instantly after waking. Of course, there was no danger; the hour had passed and the pin had been released from the wax, cutting into Glenroy's palm. A thin trickle of blood dribbled from the tiny wound as he removed the pin. He ignored the wound; he'd had worse when cutting himself shaving, and there would be undoubtedly a lot of pain waiting for him in Oblivion. The grey light of the dawn was banishing the dark night as the Imperial stood.

Working his neck to ease the stiffness from his muscles, the Blade's eyes fell upon Selene, and, despite himself and the situation, he wasted a few seconds, just looking. He hadn't exactly been blessed with the most attractive of female company back in Cloud Ruler Temple, but Selene more than made up for that, especially as her armour really did leave little to the imagination despite actually being quite protective; he'd sparred with her a few times back at the Temple, and had been surprised at how effectively she'd used the plate armour on her limbs to block and deflect blows, while her chainmail cuirass and skirt seemed sturdy despite their limited coverage.

Abruptly, Glenroy shook himself angrily. Martin had told him to protect her, not to ogle her. Shaking his head, he walked over and shook her shoulder gently. She grunted slightly, eyes flickering, head rolling over to hit his bare forearm. "Come on," urged Glenroy, shaking her slightly harder. "We've rested enough; Bravil needs us more than we need sleep." Satisfied that she was now fully awake, the Imperial moved over to check on the horses, pulling on his gauntlets and donning his helmet.

"How long do you think it'll take us to get there?" asked the half-elf, stretching, grimacing as her neck muscles cried out in protest.

"I don't know, and I don't really care, as long as we get there in time," muttered Glenroy. "We'll leave in a few minutes. Take the time to relieve your bladder; I doubt you'll get another chance any time soon." The Imperial disappeared into the bushes to take his own advice. Selene raised an eyebrow, then understood his wisdom and walked off in the opposite direction.

Minutes later, they were on the road again, hooves pounding the flagstones as they galloped down the Green road, entering the Nibenay Valley. Legion patrols and early merchant trains were left behind in the dust, as was a single highwayman who barely had time to throw himself out of the way to avoid being trampled by four speeding horses. The raced the rising sun, whose rays were clashing with an ominous red glow on the horizon. Glenroy, slowing momentarily and standing in his stirrups, judged by the size and nature of the glow that Bravil was not yet on fire. Yet.

Eventually, as they passed a wayshrine to Zenithar, who must have been angered by the Daedric corruption of Cyrodiilic nature, the two reined in as the sky changed from the grey of the predawn to the angry red-and-black of the skies of the Deadlands. The canopy of the forest around the road still hid Bravil from view. "Are you ready?" asked Glenroy, his face grim as he checked that he was fully stocked with potions. Selene checked her own equipment and nodded, a determined look on her face. Glenroy grunted and booted Arrow forward.

Trotting out of the forest, they came across a battlefield. Dead and dying daedra littered the area in front of Bravil, choked by the bottleneck formed by the wooden bridge that stretched across the Larsius River that separated Bravil from the Upper Nibenay Valley. Arrows and magic from the city's high walls was tearing into an assortment of daedra as they attempted a charge across the bridge. The pile of daedric corpses littered across the wooden structure suggested that this was one of many failures. Evidently, the Bravil Guard had conducted a fighting retreat, several bodies of soldiers trailing back towards the gates. Fires had engulfed the Bay Roan stables, leaving only charred timbers and a handful of dead horses.

The Gate to Oblivion stood near the bank of the Niben, belching fire and smoke into the air, sporadically spewing forth a handful of daedra to patrol the area and keep Bravil's defenders on their toes. A single Oblivion Gate. "Why haven't they opened a Great Gate?" asked Selene, half talking to herself as she edged Dawn back into the forest. Glenroy had already dismounted and had tied both his horses to a tree where they would be out of sight of the daedra.

"Don't question good fortune," retorted the Blade, his katana rasping out of its scabbard. "Hopefully, we can take advantage of their disorganisation and get through the gate without attracting much attention. Let's just hope another attack wave doesn't leave right now." The Imperial walked to the edge of the forest, glaring up at the Gate. Selene stepped up to join him, glaive in hand, her readiness apparent.

Glenroy took a step forward, then turned to face her. His brown eyes locked onto her green eyes; both were filled with grim determination. "Let's do this," whispered Glenroy, barely loud enough to be heard over the sounds of the daedra dying and shouts from Bravil. Selene nodded, and together they charged from the forest.

A daedroth, busily feasting on the body of a dead guard, looked up and spotted them, letting forth a hissing roar as it drew itself up, pawing at the ground. Before it could charge, Selene sent lightning coursing through it, the air crackling. The shattered daedra fell to the ground as the two intruders sprinted past. A scamp chattered angrily and darted towards Glenroy, only for the Imperial to smoothly sidestep and run his blade across its stomach in one smooth motion, ignoring the scamp's agonised gurgle as it was disembowelled.

The gap was closing; they were now only fifty paces from the Gate. A Clannfear spotted them and reared, tossing its head, alerting a nearby Dremora. The Kynaz turned and regarded the two advancing marauders somewhat stonily as the Clannfear was sent to the ground, smoking and broken by ball lightning. His hand raised to send elemental magic at the duo, the Dremora was too late; more lightning slammed into his body, the effect magnified by his armour. Upon his rebirth some time later, he would reflect on how painful death was at the hands of a skilled battlemage.

Glenroy was the first through. Having never entered Oblivion before, the immense heat searing his lungs and the constriction of the air around him took even the conditioned, experienced Blade by surprise, and he wasted precious seconds on the other side panting and regaining his bearings. Selene staggered through a second later. For the half-elf, one plane of Oblivion looked like any other; seas of boiling lava, cracked, parched earth, looming, ominous obsidian towers, and most of all, the stench of sulphur and blood. For Glenroy, it was all new. Facing the Deadlands with characteristic determination, the Imperial crushed his fears and turned to Selene.

"You've been in one of these before," he said. "I'll defer to your experience. Where to?"

Selene had been studying the skyline, and pointed to the largest tower, located in the centre of a network of several smaller towers, which in turn seemed to be connected to a series of gates blocking access to the central plateau upon which the central tower stood. "The Sigil Stone is anchored at the top of that largest tower," she told him. Glenroy glared up at it as though the tower had done him a personal insult. "That's where we're aiming to go. The rest is... different, I don't know this place. It's different. Not like before." She exhaled shakily, grip tightening on her glaive.

"Well, standing around isn't going to close it," muttered Glenroy, looking around, observing their immediate area. As he was looking at a large rock formation almost directly ahead of them, his eyes widened as a large company of at least forty Dremora came jogging around it, headed for the Gate. "Selene. Invisibility. NOW."

Fortunately, she had seen them as well, and reacted quickly. Glenroy felt an odd sensation as Illusion magic swept over him, then he felt her arm tugging at his, pulling him back out of the way as the Dremora marched up to the Gate and went through. He felt a snarl creep over his face, and his grip tightened on the hilt of his katana, as he thought of the destruction they'd be causing in Cyrodiil, but he forced himself to remain calm. Eventually, the last Dremora departed from the Deadlands. Selene dispelled the invisibility, Glenroy instinctively flinching as she suddenly appeared in his field of vision mere inches from him.

"Let's hope we don't run into another one of those," growled Glenroy, marching forward past the gate and looking around. They were flanked by rocks on three sides, with only two pathways open to them; one led directly to a smaller tower, while the other twisted, the end out of sight. "What way, do you think?" he asked.

"We should attack the smaller tower," Selene told him, leaning on her glaive. "There might be a way to open the gates from there, or we might even be able to access the central tower directly." She paused, sharp green half-elven eyes darting over the rough terrain before them. "There'll be isolated daedra hanging around," she continued. "Nothing organised, and there won't be until we're detected."

Glenroy nodded. "You've got the magic," he said. "You lead, I'll watch our backs." Selene nodded and started off down the path, Glenroy following five paces behind, periodically rotating fully to keep aware of their surroundings. No daedra appeared from behind rocks to ambush them; clearly, they weren't expecting an invasion as small as this, one without forewarning. The only sound as they moved forward was the crunch of their boots on the hard-packed earth and the savage, hot wind howling overhead. Occasionally, dust swirled up and obscured their vision, but was rapidly dispersed by Selene's use of magic.

As the path ended and they entered the open plain at the foot of the smaller tower, a feeling of vulnerability washed over both of them; daedra could be watching from any one of many towers dotting this plane of Oblivion. It wasn't long before the duo met their first resistance on the ground. A Clannfear turned its massive head towards them, made an odd clicking sound, and charged. Selene sidestepped and knocked its legs from under it with the pole of her glaive, then swung the weapon around and buried the blade deep in the Clannfear's back. It twitched as she wrenched the bloodied blade free, then lay still.

"Not that I'm complaining, but how did you obtain so much skill while living on a tiny island for your entire life?" asked Glenroy as they pressed on towards the tower.

"My father insisted that we be able to defend ourselves if necessary, and we liked the idea so much that we decided to devote ourselves fully to achieve mastery of combat," explained Selene. She smiled grimly. "Besides, after I had read every book on the island, there was not much else to do except train and spar."

"Well, you've done well for someone with so little experience," muttered Glenroy, peering at rock until he was sure that no daedra was hiding behind it.

"I had a... difficult start," mumbled Selene, turning her head away, looking into the distance.

Glenroy shifted, feeling somewhat uncomfortable despite the situation. "Sorry," he grunted. "I know it wasn't-" Selene cut him off.

"No, its fine, I've... come to terms with it." She shakily drew breath. "I'm avenging them. That makes it... slightly easier... to deal with." Swallowing, she shook her head and grimaced. "Let's not lose focus," she growled, picking up her pace.

Their rapid progress towards the tower was soon interrupted by a Storm Atronach, a pile of rocks rising from the ground and fusing together as they approached. Selene absorbed the lightning bolts it sent at them and blew it apart with a fireball, the individual, scorched rocks exploding out in every direction. Glenroy ducked as one glanced off his helmet. "Bastards," he snarled. "They try to kill you in here even after they're dead." He set his shoulders and marched onwards.

The closer they got to the tower, the stiffer the resistance became. By the time they'd reached the door, three scamps, two Spider Daedra, a Flame Atronach and a Dremora had been left broken and bleeding in their wake. A looming obsidian wall nearby meant that their only options were to enter the tower; the pathway continuing past it led only to a closed gate. They paused, Glenroy leaning on the wall to the left of the door, Selene to the right. They looked at each other across the gap, sweat and grime already streaking their faces.

"It's going to be dark in there," warned Selene. "They'll try to attack us quickly, to rely on their night vision. I'll create light to negate that, but be on your toes." Glenroy nodded, raising his shield and tightening his grip on his katana, the blade already stained from hilt to point in the blood of daedra. Brushing her hair out of her face – Glenroy wondered why she didn't tie it back – Selene turned to face the door, gripping her glaive firmly. "Ready?" she asked. He nodded.

A dim pink glow shimmered around the half-elf's fingertips as she used telekinesis to force the doors open, then she darted through, creating a blazing ball of brilliant light, hovering a foot above her head. Glenroy charged in after her. Two scamps were chattering shrilly as their eyes were invaded by the light; a daedroth was stumbling around, disorientated, while two Dremora had their eyes squeezed tightly shut, backed into a corner, shields up in a defensive posture until they could see again.

Selene wasted no time in leaping towards the daedroth, glaive spinning as the steel blade sliced through its hamstrings. The massive reptile let out a hissing roar and fell to its knees, making it easy for her to open up its throat. Glenroy had dealt with the two scamps with pathetic ease and was now battling one of the recovered Dremora. The Kynaz snarled a harsh curse and swung his mace at Glenroy's head. Ducking, the Imperial bashed his opponent's head aside with his shield and struck with his katana, slicing downwards into the Dremora's neck, blade cutting deep down into his ribcage. Wrenching his blade free with some effort, Glenroy turned to the other Dremora, only to find his head slowly rolling towards him, the body collapsed in a heap a few feet away.

"There should be a lever around here somewhere," muttered Selene, head swivelling as she tried to locate it while absentmindedly wiping her glaive's blade clean with a rag. Glenroy did the same for his katana; some forms of daedra had acidic blood running through their veins.

"Is that it?" asked Glenroy, pointing to a rusted iron lever attached to a naked gear. Selene nodded, and Glenroy sheathed his katana, stepped over to it, planted his feet, and wrenched it down. A grating, grinding sound filled the air, and the ground seemed to reverberate beneath their feet. Selene let her light wink out, revealing the deep red glow of Oblivion visible from a hole in the ceiling far above them as a lift descended, rattling down onto a platform intended for the purpose, slotting perfectly onto the wicked spikes in the centre of the room.

"Don't worry, you're perfectly safe as long as you stay away from the holes," Selene told Glenroy as she climbed onto the lift, smirking slightly at his perturbed expression. He grunted and got on, carefully giving the spikes a wide birth as he drew his katana. The lift jolted as the pressure of the two mortals activated it once again, and it began juddering upwards. Selene seemed sure-footed, but Glenroy didn't hesitate in making his way to the central, unmoving spike and grabbing it for support, before turning and looking up at the rapidly-approaching lower ledge. The skies of Oblivion boiled overhead.

"Two daedra on the lower ledge, more above," observed Selene calmly, hands starting to glow as she prepared offensive magicka. "Be ready to move quickly. Mind your step." Glenroy nodded, eyes finding the holes in the platform and noting their location. The lift slowly ground to a halt.

Two Flame Atronachs immediately sprang forward, throwing fireballs. Selene blocked two with her magical shield, and Glenroy blocked another with his steel shield, wincing as he felt the metal of the shield and his gauntlet start to glow with heat. Selene unleashed bolts of frost at the two Atronachs, sending them flying, frozen, into the walls of the tower, shattering them. Shaking his scorched shield to dissipate the steam rising from it, Glenroy darted off the lift as a Dremora came jumping down the ramp. The Imperial barged him into the wall, staggering him, the Kynaz barely recovering in time to parry Glenroy's thrust. Forcing the edge of his shield up into the Dremora's chin, the Blade knocked his foe's blade aside and opened his throat, kicking him onto the lift to bleed out.

"How many left?" he asked Selene, who was squinting up at the upper levels.

"Two," she said slowly. "One's big enough to be a daedroth or a larger Atronach, while the other looks like a scamp. It's hard to tell." Glenroy grunted and led the way up the ramp at jogging pace, armour clanking. Selene followed closely behind, making slightly less noise. Emerging from the ramp at the top of the tower, her predictions proved accurate; a scamp and a daedroth were all that awaited them. Glenroy roared a challenge and charged at the daedroth, waiting until the last second before ducking under its clumsy swing and using his momentum to drive his katana deep into its chest. It hissed in agony and attempted to flail at him, but he'd already backed away, drawing the shortsword he carried as a backup weapon. Darting in behind the crippled beast, he jumped and drove the blade into the base of the reptile's skull, killing it instantly.

Wrenching his katana free from the daedroth's ribcage with some effort, the Imperial looked up to see Selene, having killed the scamp, peering out of a doorway. Joining her, Glenroy's face hardened. A slender bridge joined the small tower to the main tower, a thin walkway hundreds of feet above the rocks of the Deadlands. Glenroy could tell that the wind was still strong. "Ladies first," he grunted, a corner of his mouth pulling up in a smirk as Selene directed a withering glance at him and stepped out.

A purple glow throbbed at her fingertips for a moment, then faded. The half-elf then walked off the bridge, then, standing on nothing, turned and smiled at the grimacing Imperial. "Your turn," she grinned, and Glenroy felt an odd sensation of weightlessness come over him. Swallowing hard, he stepped onto the bridge, and raised an eyebrow when the wind seemed to buffet him, but had no affect on his balance. His eyes widened even further when he took a tentative step off the walkway and felt no discernable difference beneath his boots, despite one standing on rock and the other on thin air. Selene laughed at the look on his face.

"Please tell me that you _are_ maintaining that spell?" growled Glenroy, determinedly not looking down as he moved back onto the bridge and started walking across, considerably faster than he would have if he hadn't been under the influence of a levitation spell.

"Of course," replied Selene, raising her voice slightly due to the intruding howl of the hot wind, walking alongside him, nothing holding her up except for her skill with Alteration. "Imagine my surprise when I found out that levitation had been banned in Cyrodiil." She sighed and shook her head. "What a waste."

"Yeah, well, right now I'm grateful that you know illegal magic," grunted Glenroy. "When we get back to Cloud Ruler Temple, I'll advise Martin to repeal it when he's crowned. Don't know why it was banned in the first place." He looked sideways at the half-elf. "Clearly, some of you mages didn't pay attention anyway."

"And how were we meant to know about it on a tiny island in the middle of the sea?" snorted Selene. "It's probably not even technically a part of Cyrodiil."

Glenroy raised his hands in admittance of defeat, then hurriedly lowered them again. He wasn't about to start gesturing hundreds of feet off the ground. "Would you have ever left if... you know...? Dagon hadn't intruded?" he asked tentatively, glancing across at her. "If you don't mind me asking, that is," he added hastily.

Selene sighed and rubbed her chin, leaving it even grimier than it had been before. The dust and dirt of Oblivion was starting to accumulate on her body and armour, and Glenroy suspected that the same was true of him. "It's fine," she reassured him. "I guess... I didn't know then what I know now. I would... I-I don't know," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "I guess I might have got restless after a few more years, maybe... I'm not sure." Her eyes hardened. "But what happened, happened. No use wishing after our past lives."

"True," nodded Glenroy. "Sometimes I think I could have... protected him better, but... wishing is wasteful." They lapsed into silence as they made their way across the bridge, the massive tower looming larger and larger ahead of them.

Eventually, the bridge ended, and Glenroy forced the door leading to the tower open, darting through with katana at the ready, only to find the wide, spiralling corridor deserted. Selene joined him and they set off in the only direction available to them: up. The sense of weightlessness abruptly vanished; there was no need for levitation now that they had solid obsidian under their boots. After a few minutes, they came across a deserted room, with a blood fountain in the middle of a few odd-looking benches. Glenroy grunted, ignored it, and took a swig from his canteen before offering it to Selene.

"How much further, do you reckon?" he asked, peering at the only door in the room, which seemed to lead deeper into the tower.

"Impossible to tell," replied Selene, handing back his canteen and massaging her throat. "Could just be two doors away from the Sigil Stone, or we might not reach it for hours. I think every tower is different."

"Might as well get on with it." Taking his own advice, Glenroy stepped open to the doors and wrenched them apart, walking through with katana and shield at the ready. They emerged onto a ridge around the central spire, with the searing column of pure magicka anchoring the Sigil Stone in place far above them. Opposite them on the obsidian ridge was the start of a ramp leading up, guarded by a Clannfear, who snorted and crouched, ready and waiting. Selene spared it the weight by shattering it with ball lightning, before the two mortals started to make their way up the ramp.

News of their advance had apparently spread, and soon daedra were charging down the steep slope ready to do battle. A daedroth recklessly leaped at Glenroy, who ducked to a crouch and forced the lizard to fall over his shield, then pushing up and sending it over the edge, howling as it plummeted through the abyss below. Selene sliced a scamp in half then froze a spider daedra solid, turning to duck under a swing from a mace-wielding Dremora, leaving the Kynaz wide open for Glenroy to ram his katana through his armpit. Throwing the body aside, the Imperial winced as an arrow slammed into his breastplate. The arrowhead bent and failed to penetrate the steel, but, judging from the pain and force of the impact, it had at least bruised a rib. Seconds later, the Dremora archer spasmed and jerked, collapsing as Selene fried it with lightning.

"How much magicka have you got left?" asked Glenroy, gulping down half a healing potion. The pain in his chest faded.

"Enough." Selene, moving forward, looked back at the devastation they'd left behind them. "I hope."

A Dremora mage appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and sent massive fireballs at the two invaders. Selene's shield barely formed in time. The sheer heat of the fireballs exploding cracked the obsidian ramp. Growling curses, the Kynaz summoned two Clannfear and advanced, summoning a claymore. Glenroy charged to meet him, katana striking for his unarmoured torso, attack barely blocked by the Dremora's claymore. Selene slashed one Clannfear's chest open and pierced the other's throat with a summoned icicle, then moved up past Glenroy and the Dremora, locked in mortal combat, to stand ready for the attack of a Xivilai.

The massive grey-skinned daedra's battleaxe made the entire ramp vibrate as Selene only just threw herself to the side in time to avoid the Xivilai's overhead swing. Scrambling to her feet – harder than usual given the gradient of the ridge – she struck at the Xivilai's torso before he was fully recovered, but he spun, leaving his axe embedded in the ground, and grabbed her glaive pole, wrenching it from her hands with ease and throwing it over the side of the ledge. He licked his lips in anticipation as he slowly advanced on the disarmed half-elf, backing her into the wall. Drawing back his hand to strike, something slammed into his back, throwing him to the ground. The tip of the blade of Selene's glaive poked out of the front of his chest.

"Very original," praised Glenroy, nodding in appreciation, the Dremora mage lying headless some way down the ramp. "Never thought I'd see such fast, skilful use of telekinesis. Then again, I tend not to work with mages often." Selene smiled hesitantly as she ripped her glaive free of the Xivilai with some effort. She'd much rather have killed the daedra conventionally than be forced to rely on magical skill and luck. Then again, a conventional fight with a Xivilai was never easy.

Continuing on up the ridge, several scamps were effortlessly disposed of, and the fleshy floor of the Sigillum Sanguis was finally visible overhead. Both Selene and Glenroy were tiring; the constant fighting and movement would take their toll on even the most hardened and trained of warriors. The constant, if thin, stream of daedra pouring from the upper levels meant that there was no time to rest; when they weren't fighting, they were moving forward, pressing onwards in the hope of closing the Gate before they were overwhelmed. There was only so much two mortals could do.

Eventually, leaving a trail of corpses in their wake, Selene and Glenroy arrived at the doors that led to the Sigillum Sanguis. Pausing for a moment, Glenroy leaned against the wall with his shield arm, katana drooping as he caught his breath. Selene leaned heavily on her glaive and brushed her hair from her eyes for the umpteenth time. Her spell of detect life revealed several life signatures between them and the Sigil Stone. Sighing, she swigged down a potion that restored some of her magical energies and beckoned Glenroy closer.

"There's quite a few of them through there," she told him, gesturing at the door. Glenroy's features hardened, but his back remained stiff. The Blades were not known for their willingness to give in. "I'm not at my best working with Alteration – levitation and physical shielding is most of what I was taught – but I can offer some resistances using Restoration." She reached out and placed a hand against the Imperial's breastplate, her hand starting to glow with a bright blue light as her magicka infused him.

"Feels odd," muttered Glenroy, hefting his katana. "Almost like I've got a second skin. And I'm not as tired any more." He attempted to smile. "Thanks."

Selene sighed as she cast the same spell over herself, instantly feeling more invigorated. "I'd rather not have alleviated our fatigue," she explained. "The version I've cast only masks it; it'll come back to debilitate us later. By then, we'll hopefully be out of here." Draining her last potion, she threw the empty bottle to the ground and gripped her glaive firmly. "Are you ready?"

Glenroy nodded and forced the doors apart, leading the way with shield raised. The hallway leading to the Sanguis was deserted; clearly, the daedra were waiting to ambush them the moment they stepped inside. No doubt they'd have their best troops there, well-rested and battle-hardened. Neither of the mortals was relishing the fight ahead. "Can you boost your speed?" asked Glenroy. Selene nodded. "I can hold them off while you run for it," he began, but the half-elf was shaking her head.

"Won't work," she muttered. "They've got spell slingers and archers, most likely. Light as this armour is, I can't dodge well enough if I'm running at full speed. We'll have to kill at least some of them, and fight our way to the stone."

Glenroy nodded and paused just outside the gateway. He could glimpse the column of magicka, shining brightly. "If I don't make it out..."

"You'll make it out, Glenroy," growled Selene, grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to look at her. "I've had enough of death; we're both going to live through this, Dagon be damned." Her eyes were full of intensity as she released him and stepped towards the gateway. "Come on; let's see what he's got in store for us." With that, she leapt through the gateway, launching herself into a forward roll just into time to miss the massive warhammer, wielded by a Dremora, that came crashing down behind her. Overbalanced by his swing, the Kynaz was defenceless as Glenroy darted in and chopped down at his neck, decapitating him.

Selene sprang to her feet and was immediately assaulted by two Dremora swordsmen, who drove her backwards, past Glenroy, who was attempting to dodge the fireballs of two scamps while blocking the spear of another Dremora. One of the scamps' errant fireballs impacted upon the Kynaz's back, distracting him while Glenroy barged past him and sliced one of the scamps in two before picking the other one up and throwing it onto the approaching Dremora's spear. Eyes growing wider, the Kynaz frantically attempted to push the scamp's body off his weapon, but Glenroy swiftly stepped in and cleaved his head in two.

Looking for Selene, he spotted her struggling to hold off the two Dremora swordsmen, and moved to assist, planting his feet and plunging his blade deep into the back one of the Dremora, penetrating the daedric steel plate. Selene parried the attack of the other and kicked one of his legs away, knocking him off balance and allowing her to stab him through the throat. A brief pause in the combat allowed the two mortals to get their bearings and locate the thin stairs that led to the upper levels. Selene darted off to charge up the nearest one, while Glenroy ran across the room, weaving around corpses, to climb the second set.

Further opposition manifested itself in two spider daedra, one attacking each of the mortals. Glenroy blocked her clawed hands and slashed at her torso, cutting deeply into her arms as she blocked. Ignoring her screech of pain and rage, he moved in, bashing his shield into her face, and stabbing deep into her torso. Selene simply blasted the other arachnid away with a fireball. Both of them, aware of daedric reinforcements that would surely be inbound from below, raced towards the final level, the residence of the Sigil Stone.

Upon ascending the blood-coloured, fleshy ramp, the pair was confronted by a single Xivilai, wielding a double-bladed axe, a snarl splitting his face, yellow eyes blazing with hatred. Glenroy wasted no time in attacking, slashing at the daedra's torso. The Xivilai parried the blow with ease and spun, striking at Selene's legs as she tried to run past him to reach the Sigil stone, tripping her and sending her sprawling. As he swung his axe down towards the prostrate half-elf, the Xivilai was knocked off-balance by Glenroy barging into him shield first, roaring a battle cry. The Xivilai barely maintained his footing as he shoved Glenroy away with enough force to stagger him.

Selene had used the opportunity to scramble to her feet and sprint for the Sigil stone, arm outstretched. Roaring curses, the Xivilai raced after her in desperation, foolishly leaving his flank open for Glenroy to force his blade through his ribcage, slicing his heart in two. As the daedra collapsed, the Imperial withdrew his katana and ran after Selene, conscious of shouting from below; evidently, reinforcements had arrived. Selene skidded to a halt and reached for the Sigil Stone, the anchor seeming even blacker against the bright, painful light of the beam of pure magicka holding it in place. As Glenroy stopped beside her, the half-elf reached out and tore the Stone from its anchor.

The anchoring magicka shot up into the angry skies of Oblivion; freed from its duties, it was going mad, expanding, rushing up the tower faster than a galloping horse, wreaking havoc as daedra frantically and futilely attempted to find somewhere to wait out the coming holocaust. It reached the Sigillum Sanguis, and the last memory of Oblivion for the two mortals was one of searing, overwhelming light.

As his senses returned to him, it was light of a different kind that Glenroy noticed first: sunlight. Opening his eyes, he realised that he was flat on his back at the foot of the Bravil Gate, watching the dark skies of Oblivion recede, letting the morning sun warm the Niben Bay. The gentle splash of waves was at the edge of his hearing as he sat up, looking around. Bodies of daedra lay everywhere, but Glenroy ignored them and searched for Bravil. The bridge was near collapse due to the weight of bodies, the city gates had been battered, and part of the wall had crumbled, but Bravil stood. It had survived.

The Imperial heard Selene drag herself to her feet next to him, and he stood slowly, ignoring the fatigue that was slowly clawing its way back up to the surface within him. Turning to look behind him, all he saw was the pile of rocks and fissures that marked where the Oblivion Gate had once stood. Trees were distantly visible through the gap where there had once only been a gateway of fire. A savage, triumphant smile appearing on his face, Glenroy laughed with sheer joy and threw his arms around Selene, hard enough to hear her ribs creaking. She returned the hug, laughing more out of relief than anything else. Glenroy turned, and, one arm still around Selene's shoulders, roared wordlessly in defiance of Dagon, shaking his fist at the Gate.

Suddenly aware that the guards on top of the walls of Bravil could see him, Glenroy grunted and pulled away from Selene, embarrassed at the slip in his normally impeccable discipline. Footsteps crunched on the soil, and they both turned to see a Dunmer, of average height and clad in full steel plate armour, walking towards them, a wry grin on his middle-aged face, black hair unbound and falling to his shoulders.

"So, I get called all the way from my tower to deal with an Oblivion Gate, then show up to find it closed?" he said in greeting, removing his hand from the hilt of his ancient, Dwemer-made longsword. "I was looking forward to something to relieve me of my boredom," he continued, sighing. "Fathis Aren, battlemage and Bravil's court wizard, at your service. Or not." A contingent of guards had left Bravil and was heading over the battlefield towards them.

"Well, if it means anything, Aren, I'd much rather you had dealt with this," replied Glenroy, still smiling, gesturing at the closed Gate behind him. "Defying Dagon after riding through a day and a night wasn't exactly on my wish list." He paused. "Besides, if you really want to end your boredom, I'm pretty sure your skills will be needed in the coming days."

"I'll wait and hope, then," sighed the Dunmer, giving a nod to Glenroy and a half-bow to Selene before turning away to greet the approaching guards.

Selene sighed and grounded the end of her glaive, leaning heavily on it. "Would you go through that again?" she asked Glenroy. He didn't need to ask what she meant.

The Imperial, having removed his helmet and hung it from his belt, looked at her thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "In the line of duty, I'd do it a thousand times if need be," he told her. "And if I didn't strictly _have_ to?" he paused, looking out across the Niben bay, the sun dazzling on the surface of the water, the sounds of birds singing filling his ears. "Selene, I'd willingly give my life for the good of Tamriel."

Selene was nodding. "After seeing what they can do..." She stopped and gestured at the corpse of a Dremora. "So would I."

Glenroy smiled, a savage gleam appearing in his eyes. "With people like you and Gorgoth on our side, Selene, we cannot possibly lose."

* * *

**A/N: At over 13,000 words, this is by far my longest chapter yet. Still, as I always say, a chapter ends when it ends... In any case, I should probably inform you that my ICT coursework is slowly overwhelming me at the moment, so that will most likely affect update times, but, as many of you have said, you don't mind them being a bit late as long as the quality is good. Rest assured that I'll never let my quality be compromised by a desire for speed. For now, I'll sign off with a final reminder: I want reviews. Click the blue link beneath this author's note and leave one. It'll help.**


	26. Memories of Darkness

**A/N: Well, this chapter could be regarded as late, but there's a good reason for that: Strenuous coursework, coupled with pointless mock exams, left me with little time for writing. Still, now that that's cleared up, I should be able to update quicker now. Chapter 25 had 14 reviews, making it my most reviewed chapter thus far. That's good. VERY good. A massive thanks to all who reviewed, but remember it's important to keep those reviews coming. They're all appreciated.**

**Cola: Yes, levitation SHOULD have been in Oblivion. The cities having different cells made it impossible, of course, but there should at least have been some way to implement it. And teleportation SHOULD have stayed for certain.**

**Random Reader: I've never played through the Thieves' Guild quests, so I've naturally never met Fathis Aren on that quest, but I figured I might as well make something of his character, which has potential. And, yes, I was considering skipping whatever sex scenes may happen; I know that I'd make a considerable hash of them even if I did try to write them, and the lack of them is no big loss.**

**Anon: Well, I guessed that it would have been pretty obvious, given that she has no magical aptitude, but, yes, I AM a big fan of tie-ins.**

**Underpaid Critic: Hmm, well, reviews offering nothing but encouragement are still helpful. The thing is, I'm not expecting someone who's never played Oblivion to read this, so modifying it in such a way might seem a bit redundant. Still, it is a good idea.**

**Jack Jones: I hope this is soon enough for you: I always do tend to have problems with timing... it should hopefully be better in future, though.**

**Scytherian Poetry : Arg. How can I have played this game and not realise that typo? Ah, well, thanks for pointing it out. As for Gorgoth shouting, there's a number of reasons for that: Firstly, there was no-one around to witness it; secondly, his complete lack of magicka at the moment meant that anything required brute force, and, thirdly, that was Chapter 3. I've re-read it recently, and Gorgoth then is different from the Gorgoth I have now; more free with his emotions. A potential rewrite in future would solve that. Good point about the surname, but this is the Blades; small and elite, the Knight Brothers/Sisters at least are likely to have taken to using first names due to their close-knit nature. The Captains are referred to by rank and second name, so at least I got that right. As for that error... I personally don't see anything wrong with that.**

**One last thing: Brothers in Arms, by Arty Thrip, is a bloody good fic. It and its author are good enough to be on my favourites list, at least. And it's not getting anything like the number of reviews it deserves. If you appreciate good fanfics, check it out. And leave a review.  
**

**Right, with that long A/N out of the way, here's your chapter. Don't forget to review.**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-six: Memories of Darkness**

After hours on the road, riding at an easy pace, Glenroy finally ordered a halt, just before they reached the turn-off point for the Gold Road. Only half of the sun was visible over the trees to the west. To the east, glimmers of its brilliance were still shimmering across the placid waters of Lake Rumare. A handful of clouds drifted across the horizon, the wind almost imperceptible to the two travellers. The rocks and rolling dunes of the beaches looked welcoming, despite the obvious activity of mudcrabs.

"No point in turning up at Cloud Ruler Temple with dead horses," observed Glenroy as he slid off the saddle of his remount and started leading both his horses down to the edge of the beach. Selene slowly emulated him. They hadn't stayed long outside Bravil; after receiving the heartfelt thanks of the Guard, Glenroy had been eager to return to Cloud Ruler Temple.

"There's barely any wind," continued Glenroy. "And I always have liked sleeping on beaches. My father used to take me camping on the Gold Coast when I was a boy." A wistful look appeared on the Imperial's face for a moment before he banished it. "Did you ever sleep on the beach?" he asked.

Selene, wearily tying the reins of her horses around a nearby rock, shook her head. "The beach on Whiterock had little sand," she explained, slowly walking over to the water's edge. Glenroy carefully placed his helmet atop a rock and joined her. "Then again, every night I fell asleep to the sounds of the waves on the rocks," she sighed, staring out across the waters, the light on the western horizon behind them slowly dying. "It was therapeutic. It's probably why it was so attractive for those wanting to think and forget."

Glenroy grunted, not speaking for a minute, merely watching the last rays of the sun reflect off the surface of the lake, before they finally disappeared. "Well, I'm not about to sleep in my armour tonight," he announced, moving back to the large rock where he'd left his helmet and starting to remove his plate armour. "I'll be washing before rest, though. You should, too; you need it more than I do."

Selene gave him an inquisitive glance. Glenroy snorted and gestured towards her body. "I know how good that armour is, Selene, but, to be honest, I'd rather not walk around Oblivion half-naked."

Looking down at herself, the half-elf groaned as she noticed the thick dirt and grime, not to mention blood, that had accumulated over her golden-tinted skin in Oblivion. "You know, I think you're right," she muttered, starting to strip off the plate armour that covered her limbs. "Keep an eye out for mudcrabs."

Glenroy snorted, placing his pauldrons carefully down on the rock alongside his helmet and gauntlets. "Selene, you've just torn through a plane of Oblivion. I doubt a mudcrab will give you any trouble. You could just blast it out of the way." He snarled in frustration as he contorted his body in an attempt to undo a hard-to-reach strap. His body, worn and stiff from the constant fighting and riding, was growing lethargic.

Selene, due to the nature of her armour, was having no such difficulty, having laid her gauntlets and pauldrons on a similar rock, which she was sitting on, slowly removing her boots. "That wouldn't stop them if they sneaked up on me or hid in the sand," she muttered, smirking at the topic of conversation. "Then again, it does seem a bit trivial. Do you need help?"

Glenroy sighed and straightened. "Would you?" he asked, scratching his nose in embarrassment. Selene gave him a wry smile and nodded, walking over and reaching under his cuirass, following his directions to locate the offending strap. With that loosened, she proceeded to ignore his protests and remove the rest of his armour for him, leaving most of it leaning against the rock.

"You're still too tense," she told him dryly, poking him in the back. "Hopefully, some good rest will ease your muscles, but expect aches."

"I always did," retorted Glenroy, slowly pulling his sweat-stained shirt over his head. "If a soldier's muscles aren't aching after a long battle, then he hasn't done his job properly." He rolled his shoulders in a futile attempt to dispel some of the tightness. "Maybe the water will limber things up a bit."

"It might help," agreed Selene, turning back to walk over to her own rock, already fiddling with the straps on her greaves.

"Is your armour padded?" asked Glenroy abruptly. The half-elf's gold-tinted skin was cleaner where her armour had previously rested, but there were no weals or other marks to indicate the chafing of metal against bare skin.

"The plates have a thin lining of cloth, yes," replied Selene, turning back towards him. "And the chainmail..." She loosened the clips that held her light chainmail cuirass around her shoulders, and removed it, holding out for his inspection. Wrenching his eyes away from her full breasts, which appeared to be trying to escape from her bra, Glenroy refocused on the inner lining of her chainmail, which had fine stands of cloth woven into it, completely removing any contact between skin and steel.

"An impressive design," praised Glenroy, waving her away and walking down to the water's edge. A few mudcrabs scuttled away as the Imperial approached. The air was slowly cooling as the night moved over the land, swallowing the heat of the day, but Glenroy wasn't about to sleep when covered in the grime and filth of battle. He removed his trousers and loincloth and walked naked into the waters of Lake Rumare.

The freezing water forced his skin to pimple as it lapped at first his knees, then his waist, then his torso, but the Blade ignored it and plunged his head under the surface, running his hands over his face, removing layers of accumulated dirt. His helmet had protected a large part of his face, but it and the rest of his armour would need cleaning for sure back at Cloud Ruler Temple. Breaking the surface and gulping in air, Glenroy ran his hands through his hair and shivered as the chill of late autumn sliced through his fine body hair and sent cold lancing through his blood. Large parts of his lower body were slowly numbing.

Hearing a small splash to his right, he turned and frowned as he saw ripples in the water caused by... nothing. The Imperial's eyebrows rose slightly, then skyrocketed as he recognised the light-bending effects of a chameleon spell. "Selene..." he muttered, searching for the words which seemed to elude him. "You _are_ aware that both men and women share a communal barracks at Cloud Ruler Temple, correct?"

The concealed half-elf sighed. "Yes, Glenroy, I am aware of that. I also assumed that you were aware of that fact that I am _not_ a soldier." The ripples faded from the Imperial's vision as Selene submerged. Glenroy shook his head and walked back to the shore, starting to shiver as soon as his chest was clear of the water. His foot slid on something smooth and slippery and he fell forward, cursing, barely catching himself in time. Glaring back at what had tripped him, the Imperial's breath caught in his throat as he recognised the distinctive silver scales of a Rumare Slaughterfish. Fortunately, the creature was dead. Glenroy hauled himself back to his feet and continued back to the shore.

Smiling at the feeling of wet sand parting under his feet, Glenroy slid down against the side of a rock. He'd need Selene to emerge and start a fire soon, or the sheer cold would take it's toll, but for now he was content to lie back against the rock and watch as Masser and Secunda slowly spread their brilliant light over the lake. Patches of disturbed water marked where Selene was vigourously cleansing her body, probably using smooth stones from the bottom of the lake for the purpose.

Boots crunching on the sand caught his ears, and he was on his feet in a heartbeat, facing a Nord and an Imperial who were cursing their inability to sneak up on him. Both wore leather armour and both had naked blades in their hands, and both were obviously unwashed, uncultured bandits who probably didn't even bother with asking before resorting to violence. Upon seeing that Glenroy was naked and unarmed, the pale Imperial grinned, exposing numerous gaps in his crooked teeth, and nudged his companion, whose shaggy, dirty blonde beard covered most of his face.

"Have yer ever seen a more pathetic sight in yer life, Bjad?" he croaked, voice harsh and grating. Bjad simply ignored him companion and took a step forward. "Yer gonna regret taking a swim on _our_ beach, boy," snarled the Imperial moving into a crouch and moving forward swiftly.

"How quaint," sighed Glenroy. "Beach bandits." The Imperial snarled and leapt at Glenroy, shortsword flashing in the moonlight. Planting his feet, the Blade met him head on, forcing his sword arm aside and slamming his forehead into the bandit's nose. Howling and staggering backwards, clutching his bloodied face, the wretch was shoved aside by his Nordic comrade, broadsword raised. Glenroy leaned backwards and swept his legs from under him. The Nord fell heavily, and had barely started to struggle to his feet when Glenroy slammed his heel into the back of the neck, sending him once again to the sands, and this time he did not rise.

Turning to face the Imperial bandit, Glenroy only had a second to observe the look of utter shock on the man's face before a fireball, thrown from behind Glenroy, vapourised his chest, throwing the various smouldering body parts in all directions. "Good shot," complimented the Blade, turning. Selene was standing, fully visible and fully naked, just a few feet behind him, right hand still outstretched, water dripping from her body.

"There are _beach_ bandits in this country?" she asked, incredulous, eyes wide.

"More likely they were just camping off the road and noticed us." Glenroy folded his arms. "Your spell's worn off," he noted.

Selene looked down at herself and blushed furiously. Glenroy simply smirked and walked past her to his clothing. The bandits had made him forget the cold, but now it struck again with a vengeance, forcing him to clench his teeth to stop them from chattering. "If you could make a fire, I'd be grateful," he told the half-elf.

"I can do better," she muttered. Glenroy wrinkled his brow, and was about to turn when an odd, warming sensation fell over his entire body. His wet skin was dry within seconds, each individual hair on his body containing no trace of the water that had been clinging to his skin. Cold air continued to prick his skin, but Glenroy was no longer shivering. Turning, he gaped at Selene, who had just applied the same treatment to herself. "You invent quite a few useful spells when stranded on an island," she explained, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Now, please, get your clothes back on." Apparently she was still embarrassed, made evident by the fact that within seconds she had covered herself with a cloak of invisibility. Shaking his head, Glenroy grinned and walked over to his clothes. He'd sleep well tonight.

* * *

It was two hours past sunrise in Skingrad when Ilend, freshly promoted to Swordsman following the completion of last night's contract, rose from the table and stretched, limbs creaking. The remnants of the two apples he'd eaten for breakfast, along with a hunk of bread, were slowly leaking juice into the dark wood of the table, which bore numerous stains in places where Guildsmen had done the same thing in the past. Walking slowly to the window, Ilend was peering out, arms folded, at the sunlight streaming down onto the street outside when Fadus walked in and offered a cursory greeting.

"Want to hear a joke, Fadus?" asked Ilend, an impish grin creeping over his features.

"Go ahead," grunted the Imperial, taking a seat and swinging his booted feet up to rest on the mistreated table.

"What do you get when you combine an extremely drunk Bosmer, a Dunmeri necrophiliac, and a graveyard in the early hours of the morning?"

Fadus's face went blank. "No idea. What?"

Ilend started laughing and turned, putting his back to the window. "One of the funniest nights of my life so far."

Raising an eyebrow, Fadus leaned forward, putting his feet down, intrigued. "Which one did you screw?" he asked. He always did tend to get to the point quickly.

Snorting, Ilend swept his arm at the Swordsman in a dismissive gesture. "None," he growled. "I said 'funniest', not 'best'. If Aerin remembers anything about it, though, I'd recommend not letting her anywhere near All Things Alchemical. Not for a while, at least."

"What was that?" asked Aerin, staggering in, bleary-eyed and clearly under the influence of a severe hangover. Bosmer and strong, cheap whisky clearly did not mix well. How she had managed to get into her armour was beyond Ilend.

"Nothing you need to worry about," soothed Ilend, pulling back a seat and flopping down. Aerin swayed for a moment, then deposited herself in a seat across from him, next to Fadus. Her normally pale face had a grey tinge to it.

"Ya know... I ain' t feeling all that," she moaned, pressing both hands to her forehead. Ilend grunted, pursing his lips, humourous expression fading, replaced by one of mild concern. Fadus had no such inhibitions, sniggering at the Wood Elf's misfortune and grabbing a bunch of grapes from the fruit bowl. Ilend recognised it as the bunch he'd 'borrowed' from Tamika's vineyard last night, as an unofficial bonus for a job well done. Another, more pained groan from Aerin snapped his eyes back to her, and he rose swiftly.

"OK, Aerin, come with me," he sighed, taking her by the arm and gently but firmly leading her towards the back of the Guildhall, where a door opened out onto a small practise range laid out on the small patch of grass between the back of the Guildhall and the backs of the houses opposite. What little grass there was had long since been stomped flat by Parwen, who trained there without fail every day. She normally rose late, however, a fact that Ilend was now grateful for.

The Imperial breathed in deeply, the scent of the morning dew in the grass filling his nostrils as he slowly led Aerin away from the Guildhall. "Breathe deep," he told her. "It normally works."

Aerin took his advice and inhaled shakily, face turning an even more unhealthy shade of grey. Abruptly, she turned and bent double, vomiting what seemed to be every single meal she'd had since the Battle of Kvatch. Ilend smirked and put a steadying hand on her back, studying Parwen's pitted target until, after what seemed to be a long time, Aerin finally stopped heaving and groaned, scraping the back of her hand across her mouth.

"Feeling better?" asked Ilend as she straightened.

She nodded, drawing breath slowly as she unsteadily leaned on his shoulder. "I've felt worse," she muttered. Her face certainly looked less grey and drawn. "What _happened_ last night?"

"You drank a lot of cheap whiskey," replied Ilend slowly, stroking his chin to hide his smirk. "I stuck with my beer, but you _insisted_ on trying that stuff, even though I _told_ you that even one shot would probably knock you flat." He chuckled fondly at the memories. "That said, you managed to hold quite a lot of it. Don't worry," he added, noticing her concerned looks, "I got you out of there before you could get up and start dancing naked on a table." He left out the fact that she had later started dancing in a graveyard, singing loud enough to wake the dead.

"Right..." Aerin shook her head and stepped away from him, swaying and wincing slightly. "Is that going ta be a problem?" she asked, waving in the general direction of the large puddle of vomit she'd deposited. Ilend noted that was in the exact place that Parwen normally stood for her medium-range shots.

"No, it'll be fine," he assured her. He had no doubt that Parwen would likely suffer an apoplectic fit upon finding her archery range stained with what Aerin had eaten for dinner yesterday, but he could deal with that. "Come on," he said, turning back towards the Guildhall. "Let's get something down you to replace what you've just chucked up. You'll probably need it."

"For what?"

"I intend to get you skilled enough with that shortsword of yours to give most common bandits problems staying alive when fighting you, and that means training," Ilend told her, wrenching the doors open and gesturing for her to go through first. "I'll see you in the basement in a few hours."

Aerin groaned. "Ilend, I have a _hangover_."

"You think we ever got sick days in the Guard?" snorted Ilend, giving her a half-stern, half-jesting tap on the nose with a gauntleted finger. "No, we either toughed it out, or, if it was bad enough, got the healers in. Can't neglect the defence of a city."

"I'm not a Guardsman. I'm not even a bloody soldier. I'm an archer, a hunter." Aerin shot him a sidelong glare.

Ilend sighed and took her by the shoulders, forcing her to face him. "Aerin, you fought at Kvatch. You fought the Mythic Dawn in their headquarters. You will fight Dagon and his forces once again if the Blades call on us. I don't care what you say, _that_ makes you a soldier, and you need to be prepared."

"All right," sighed Aerin. "I'm a soldier when I need ta be. I guess more training can't hurt." She removed his hands and backed away. "But right now, a few more hours of sleep would be nice." Yawning suddenly, the Bosmer turned for the stairs. "Meet me in the basement after lunch?"

Ilend nodded. "I'll make sure no-one disturbs your sleep," he told her retreating back. She mumbled something in response and disappeared into the room that served as the barracks for the entire population of the Skingrad Fighter's Guild. It wasn't a big branch, with only Ah-Malz, Fadus, Parwen, and Fons, along with Ilend and a handful of Associates. Ilend had never bothered to count them, but there weren't more than four or five, who normally were either training in the basement, in a pub getting drunk, or, occasionally, actually out on a contract. Ah-Malz had lately been grumbling even more than usual at the lack of contracts in the peaceful city and its surroundings; apparently, the stagnation of the Skingrad branch was the reason he'd been stuck at Warder for three years, with no sign of a promotion on the horizon, despite his competence.

Walking into the lounge, Ilend noted that Fadus had not moved, and had almost finished off the grapes, dark juice dribbling between his fingers. Ilend moved over to the window and stared out at the citizens going about their business. "I haven't used her much, Fadus, so I have to ask: Is Agnete an expert? Can she forge something of good quality?"

Fadus nodded slowly, rising to his feet and sucking his fingers. "Yeah, she's damn good, if you can keep her sober," he replied. "Fairly quick, as well." He glanced at Ilend. "Why?"

Ilend grinned. "Just wondering," he said lightly.

* * *

Creaking and protesting, the massive, steel-clad gates of Cloud Ruler temple slowly swung inwards to admit the two Orcs and their horses. Gorgoth and Lurog did not waste time, hurrying up the stone steps, throwing their reins to the ostlers as they appeared. "Where's Martin?" Gorgoth asked the nearest Blade, Cyrus, who was warming his hands by a brazier. His voice was calm as normal, but his tone suggested impatience. The Redguard nodded towards the outer wall while casting an odd glance at Lurog. Gorgoth ignored it and stomped over to Martin, who was leaning on the battlements, in deep discussion with Baurus.

The heir to the throne of Tamriel turned as Gorgoth joined him, removing Volendrung from his back. "Use this," grunted the Orc, holding out the warhammer.

If Martin was taken aback by Gorgoth's abruptness, he did not show it, taking the weapon from him carefully, running his eyes over it. Apparently, the Imperial's strenuous exercise routines were paying off, as he hefted the heavy warhammer without much difficulty. Swinging it would probably be a different matter. "Who now knows the tale of how this Dwemer hammer came to embody the power of one of their most bitter foes?" he muttered, talking to himself.

Gorgoth snorted. "I do, but now is not the time," he rumbled. "Where is Gnaeus?"

"He's probably sleeping in the barracks," suggested Baurus. "He only came back a few hours ago. Apparently, clearing out old Ayleid ruins is now a favourite pastime of his." The Redguard smirked, clearly amused by the mere idea of the seventy-eight year-old Imperial hermit going dungeon-crawling.

"I require his skills," stated Gorgoth as way of explanation. "Good luck with the translation." With that, he turned on his heel and walked off quickly, Lurog falling in beside him. Martin and Baurus were left looking at his back in puzzlement.

"Can this Imperial be trusted?" asked Lurog in Orcish, attracting a few inquisitive glances from nearby Blades as they headed towards the East Barracks.

"Well, we don't exactly have many other option," retorted Gorgoth, placing a hand on the door to the barracks. He was halted in his tracks by the voice of Jauffre.

"Gorgoth, there's a message for you from Modryn Oreyn," reported the Breton, striding up and holding out a letter. Gorgoth took it and slid it under his gauntlet without looking at it. "One more thing: we need to-" Gorgoth cut him off.

"Later, Jauffre," he said, opening the door to the barracks. "Time is one of the greatest luxuries in the world, and at the moment I have too little." The Grandmaster of the Blades was left staring at the closing door to his barracks.

Gnaeus had clearly just awoken from sleep, and was tightening his sword belt around his tunic. He looked up and worked his neck as the two Orcs approached. "I haven't felt as young as this for years," he sighed, knuckling his back. "What do you want?"

"You were a scout, correct? A good one?" asked Gorgoth, folding his arms and gazing down at the Imperial with some intensity.

"Damn right, I was," barked Gnaeus, standing straighter in an attempt to gain a few inches on the warrior-shaman, who towered over him. "What of it?"

"I need you to investigate an area of the Blackwood, east of the Niben, just south of the Panther River," Gorgoth told him. Nodding to his companion, he continued: "Lurog can explain more. I'll need a detailed report on whatever armies or concentrations of people you find in the area, preferably sooner rather than later." Gorgoth turned to leave; Lurog could handle the finer details.

"Hang on a second, greenskin," snarled Gnaeus, grabbing Gorgoth's elbow and turning him around. "I don't have to go gallivanting off to a bloody swamp just on your fucking say-so!"

Gorgoth simply stared down at the Imperial. "You'll do it, or I'll strangle you with your own entrails," he said, voice cold. Gnaeus opened his mouth to argue further, but the Orc's freezing amber eyes stilled his tongue. He'd seen that look in a few eyes before; it was simple and stark in it's message: _I have raped, murdered, and tortured in the past. I'll do it again, and I have no reservations about doing it to you if you give me the slightest reason to_. Faced with that gaze, Gnaeus's resolve withered, and he fell silent, radiating anger. Gorgoth nodded and turned to leave.

"I'll be expecting something in return for this," Gnaeus told the warrior-shaman's retreating back.

"That will depend on how useful your report is," rumbled Gorgoth in return, going through the door to the Great Hall and slamming it behind him.

The Great Hall was sparsely populated, with most of the Blades either on duties or training. Gorgoth walked over to an unoccupied table located next to the roaring fire and cautiously eased himself down, drawing Oreyn's letter from under his gauntlet. He ripped it open, removed his gauntlets, and settled back to read the simple message, written in spiky handwriting:

_Gorgoth,_

_You're needed. That fetcher Maglir has defaulted again. He was going to Bravil to carry out a contract for Aryarie of the Mage's Guild. Seems that his stunted brain can't even comprehend how to do that. Go to Bravil, find him, and sort this bloody mess out, and quickly._

_Oreyn_

Gorgoth grunted as he committed the note to memory, then crumpled it and threw it into the fire. He'd remember it; any military commander worth his position would be good at remembering commands, whether verbal or written. Rising, he ignored the groan emitted by the bench and started towards the exit, putting his gauntlets back on, but was intercepted, once again, by Jauffre.

"Gorgoth, before you leave, I need a word," said the Grandmaster, his posture indicating that he would order Gorgoth to stay if he had to. "You probably have pressing business, and you can take care of that – the next stage of translation is going slowly – but first there's something we have to clear up."

The warrior-shaman nodded. "What is it?" he asked.

"We should discuss this in private," the Breton told him, turning and motioning for Gorgoth to follow him. The Orc complied, following the leader of the Blades through his fortress until they reached his office, a small, basic room with a bare stone floor and walls. A desk was the only furniture, which was sagging under the weight of piles of paperwork. Illumination was provided by a small window set in the rear wall just above and behind where Jauffre would sit.

As Gorgoth closed the door behind him, two other Blades stepped forward into view, making the small spaced quite cramped. Both helmetless, the two Blades were easily recognised; one was Captain Renault, and the other was a short Breton, with shoulder-length dark brown hair and penetrating grey eyes that were currently fixated on Gorgoth. They were filled with hate. As Gorgoth returned the stare emotionlessly, he knew that yet another part of his past had caught up him. The last time he had seen this face, it had been considerably younger, and full of fear rather than hatred, but he'd always recognise Callia Petit.

"So, I take it you know what happened?" he asked, his gaze taking in Jauffre and Renault.

"We wanted to hear your side of the story," Renault told him, folding her arms. Jauffre slowly took a seat behind his desk. Callia stood stiff as a rod, one hand on the katana at her belt.

"What did you tell them?" Gorgoth asked Callia.

"The truth," she growled, eyes never leaving his face. "The fact that you led a group of Orcish raiders, who burnt and ravaged my village, and murdered half of us. You personally stormed into the manor house, beat my father, took me and my mother upstairs, shoved me under the bed and killed her." The words were uttered in little more than a whisper.

"Mostly true," admitted Gorgoth, rubbing his chin. "I have to say two things: Your village was not unique; me and my raiders gave the same treatment to two others as well." At that, both Jauffre and Renault winced, clearly wondering how they'd managed to let Gorgoth into the Blades. "Secondly, I did not kill your mother; at least, not intentionally. I merely raped her, put my armour back on, and left." He paused. "It is good to see that you made something of yourself, at least. My efforts were not in vain."

"Your _efforts_?" hissed Callia, who had turned even paler than usual. Her grip tightened on the hilt of her katana. "You dare to presume-" Gorgoth cut her off.

"You appear to have forgotten what I did for you," he rumbled. Sheer animal fury was now radiating from Callia, but Gorgoth did not react. "I very much doubt that you'd have been alive today if I hadn't saved you from my men." Holding up a hand to prevent an outburst, he went on: "It was my method of protest," he said, glancing at Jauffre and Renault. "My father was the driving force behind this ravaging of Sharoth by numerous bands of Orc raiders; the politics were complicated, needlessly so, and I was against it, but I would not disobey a direct order. I caused as much damage as possible, but I did manage to preserve at least one small part of one village." He pointed at Callia. "Deny it, if you can."

Callia snarled. "I don't see how what you did _saved_ me," she spat.

Gorgoth was about to retort when Jauffre sighed and raised a hand. "Gorgoth, talk us through it – all of it – from your point of view," he ordered.

Folding his arms, Gorgoth nodded and straightened, facing neither Jauffre nor Renault, but fixing his stare at the wall between them. "It was Second Seed, 3E 427," he began. "I was twenty-two at the time. I remember it well. Very well."

* * *

The sun was at its zenith. Gorgoth reined in Schak and held up a clenched fist, signalling a halt. His band of thirty Orcish marauders were motley and varied, but they understood how to follow orders. They had been following a path through a small, sparse forest as the land rose and fell gently, as it did in various places in Sharoth, lying in the shadow of the Wrothgarian mountains, which were always visible to the west, some of the peaks obscured by the cloud that was prevalent that day. Behind the column, smoke rose on the distant horizon, evidence of the village that they'd attacked and burnt yesterday. Beyond that village was another, very similar, that had suffered the same treatment. Divided and defenceless, the villagers had been unable to put up any resistance.

"According to my map, the village will be in sight as we reach the crest of the next rise," rumbled Gorgoth, dismounting. His men imitated him. The warrior-shaman's finger pointed out the youngest warrior in the group, a tall Orc only a year younger than Gorgoth, who himself was younger than most of those under his command. "Burzukh, find somewhere to leave the horses." Burzukh gro-Ghash nodded and headed off to do as instructed. The remainder of the band dispersed as Gorgoth, leading Schak, walked a small distance off, to summon his Daedric comrades.

He knew that he did not necessarily need their aid – thirty battle-hardened Orcs were more than enough – but he felt he could trust them more readily; most of the Orcs in his band had been provided by his father, and Gorgoth refused to trust him an inch. At least the Daedra were loyal; he'd earned their respect over the years. His first permanent companion had been Chaxil, a Kynmarcher, who he'd first summoned five years ago, followed by Xilinkar, a Markynaz, a year later. Medraka, a Xivilai, soon followed, and Gorgoth had summoned the most powerful a mere two years ago: Kathutet, a Valkynaz.

Raising his right hand and letting the red glow of Conjuration magic coalesce in his palm, Gorgoth cast the complex spell required to pluck all four from the Planes of Oblivion and bring them to Nirn simultaneously. Four separate clouds of shimmering sparks appeared, swirling faster until they were displaced by three Dremora and one Xivilai, all of whom looked around for danger before relaxing.

"Same again today?" asked Chaxil, eagerness evident in his voice, hand periodically rising to check that his claymore was still firmly in place in its scabbard on his back.

"Same again," confirmed Gorgoth. Savage grins appeared on the faces of Chaxil and Xilinkar, whereas the more disciplined Medraka and Kathutet kept their faces smooth. "Kathutet, you're guarding my door today."

The Valkynaz grunted, but didn't complain; he'd had his way with the villagers in the last two villages while Chaxil and then Xilinkar had guarded the door to the room where Gorgoth had raped the wife of the head of the village. It was always best to be completely sure of reliable protection, and Gorgoth wasn't known for letting his guard down. He nodded in the direction of the road, and the Daedra followed him over to where his men were preparing for the raid. Their Orcish wasn't bad, and was improving, but they still had some difficulties communicating with some of Gorgoth's comrades, none of whom spoke anything more than rudimentary Cyrodiilic.

"Burul, rope," growled Gorgoth to a chainmail-clad Orc. Gorgoth was one of the few in the band who was wearing all three layers of Orcish battle plate; boiled leather worn under heavy chainmail, with thick plate armour on the outside. The named Orc took several coils of thick rope from his saddle and passed it to his leader, receiving Schak's reins in return.

"Don't see why you need that," he grunted as he tied the reins of Gorgoth's warhorse to a tree. "It's not like she'll be able to overpower you."

"That's true," agreed Gorgoth. "But word might have spread, by now, and I wouldn't be surprised if more than one Breton is sleeping with a dagger under her pillow. I like to be sure."

Never the brightest soldier, Burul scratched his head for a few seconds. "But you don't need that much," he persisted. "There's more than enough there for two Bretons."

Gorgoth snorted and brushed past him. "Never go anywhere unprepared, Burul," he told his underling. Starting to march up the gentle slope towards the crest of the final hill, he bellowed orders for his men to adopt their usual strategy. Orc scrambled from where they had left their horses and started to run to surround the village, spreading out, circling its perimeter. Gorgoth stopped just before he reached the crest, accompanied by the Daedra, and started to wait.

After ten minutes, he knew for sure that his Orcs had the village completely encircled, and started running up the hill, keeping his mace firmly thrust through his belt. He wouldn't need it. As he reached the crest, the village came into view. A collection of thatched-roof, medium-sized hovels made up most of the village, which was located in a dip in the ground, surrounded by small hills. The forest fell away before it reached the village, and beyond it was the gently rolling Sharoth plain, dotted by similar villages. Apart from the twenty or so hovels, the only building of note was the manor house around which the village was built; in this area of High Rock, even the tiny villages had them, inhabited by the head of the village and made of brick and slate rather than logs and thatch, standing tall at two storeys high.

Gorgoth wasted no time; as soon as he started down the slope, he raised a hand and sent five large fireballs arching towards the village. Three landed on hovels, ripping through the structures and setting them alight, while the other two exploded on open ground, making the earth heave as the destructive power of the warrior-shaman's magic made itself known. By the time that Gorgoth's raiders, alerted by the explosions, had started down the hill towards the village, the screams had already begun.

Even in full armour, it took Gorgoth under a minute to reach the village, where he wasted no time in adding to the destruction. Smaller, less powerful fireballs streaked from his hands, blowing apart panicking Bretons or setting thatched roofs alight. Chaxil, Xilinkar and Medraka split up, each moving off to a different part of the village, hacking down anyone in their path. Kathutet followed Gorgoth as he made progress towards the manor house, now ignoring the Bretons who sporadically crossed his path. After the initial onslaught, there was little casual slaughter as his Orcs instead simply dragged and kicked the villagers to the empty patch of ground in the middle of the village that served as a gathering area. Only those attempting to flee were killed outright.

By the time Gorgoth had reached the manor house, most of the population of the village was either dead or being brutalised in the centre of the village, with many Orcs removing their armour and grabbing the nearest woman. The few Bretons who tried to resist were killed within seconds. Gorgoth kicked open the doors of the manor house and walked in, Kathutet watching his back, longsword ready, flames flickering from every inch of the enchanted blade.

The head of the Breton village was brave, at least, if foolishly so; he was standing in the middle of the hallway, in front of the stairs leading to the second level, blocking Gorgoth's access with shortsword in hand. Short and somewhat overweight, He' d clearly never used a sword before, or even done much strenuous action, and his face was pale and drawn with fear, but he refused to move as Gorgoth slowly approached him.

"Why us, Orc?" he asked, voice tight with fear. "Why are you doing this to us?" Gorgoth was fluent in the local Breton language, but didn't answer. Instead, he lunged forward, batting the sword out of the way, and savagely punched the Breton in the stomach. As he doubled over, choking, Gorgoth kneed him in the ribs then grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed him head first into the wall.

"Where is your wife?" he growled. His only response was a groan. Snarling, Gorgoth threw him to the floor and aimed a brutal kick at his ribs, feeling one snap as the Breton flew into the opposite wall. "Where is she?" he asked again.

"I'm here." The female voice snapped Gorgoth's head towards the stairs, where a short, slim Breton was descending the stairs, eyes wide with fear, hands outstretched. "Please... please don't hurt him any more," she stammered, swallowing hard. Gorgoth's gaze went past her and settled on the young teenage girl who was half-hiding behind her mother. She couldn't have been much older than sixteen. Turning to Kathutet, who had sheathed his sword, Gorgoth jerked his head towards the stairs, and together they moved towards them.

"Into your bedroom," ordered Gorgoth, pointing at the mother. "Both of you." They slowly complied, their steps heavy with dread, walking back up the stairs and into a large bedroom, furnished with a thick carpet and numerous wardrobes. The door was made of sturdy wood, but had no lock. As Gorgoth roughly pushed the Bretons inside, he shared a look with Kathutet, who nodded. Gorgoth entered the bedroom and closed the door behind him. The Valkynaz took up position with his back to the door, hand on his sword hilt, eyes searching the corridor.

Waving the two Bretons aside, Gorgoth roughly checked the double bed for concealed daggers. Finding none, he walked over to the teenager and dragged her to the foot of the bed. Instantly, her mother stepped forward, fear gripping her face. "Please, take me instead," she begged Gorgoth, wringing her hands. The teenage Breton could only whimper in fear.

Gorgoth eyed the mother stonily as he started tightly binding her daughter's hands behind her back with the rope he'd brought with him. "She will be spared," he snarled. "I will not rape her this time, but I will not leave one of you free to stab me."

"Then... she doesn't have to see this," pleaded the Breton.

The warrior-shaman snorted again and forced the child face down onto the carpet, grabbing her ankles and tying them together. "When my men reach this house – which they will soon – they will have learnt that you have a daughter, and they will tear this place apart searching for her." He finished with the terrified girl's ankles and pulled them up, starting to secure them to her wrists with a length of rope. "I don't know about you, but I don't think being gang-raped by some brutal Orcs is the best thing for a child." Rolling her onto her side, Gorgoth forced more rope into her mouth, tying it behind her head to hold her tongue in place. "Where better to hide her than under the bed where I'm taking you as my prize? Kathutet is even keeping guard outside." Standing, Gorgoth put his foot on the child's head and slid her under the bed.

"Why..." The mother had to pause to swallow. "Why would you do that?"

"I'm a soldier; I follow orders, even if I don't agree with them." Gorgoth walked over and roughly grabbed her, taking yet more rope and starting to bind her wrists. "Me preserving your daughter is the one method of defiance I have. And defiance is sometimes the only weapon I have." Shaking his head at the confusion on her face, he pushed her onto the bed and started to remove his armour.

Kathutet, in conversation with Chaxil and Xilinkar, had picked up some information about this unique form of guard duty. Chaxil had reported that the screaming started as Gorgoth started to remove his armour, while Xilinkar had claimed that it only started after he heard the Breton's dress being ripped from her shoulders. In this case, however, Kathutet didn't hear any screaming until at least a few minutes after the sound of ripping cloth.

His attention was soon drawn by a group of four Orcs stomping up the stairs towards him. The Valkynaz planted his feet firmly and casually loosened his sword in its scabbard. None of them would challenge him, as he had Gorgoth's authority backing him up, but it was always best to present a dangerous face. Two started searching the various rooms, turning them upside down, while the other two approached Kathutet.

"Apparently, that pile of shit downstairs has a daughter," one claimed, beady eyes flickering, never staying still. "I know Gorgoth claims his wife, but do you know where the daughter is?" It took a second for Kathutet to fully interpret his words; he spoke many mortal languages, but Orcish was a new one to him.

"It is not my business to know that," replied Kathutet. "All I know is that you're not going in there." He jerked his thumb towards the door behind him. A particularly deep grunt followed by a piercing shriek underlined his words.

"But she might be in there," persisted the Orc.

Kathutet snorted. "I highly doubt that Gorgoth would take more than one. And I also doubt that your leader will be pleased to barge in while he's claiming his spoils of war." He took a step forward. "And you'd have to go through me." The Dremora was confident; out of the entire group, only Gorgoth could call himself his equal in combat with any conviction, though his young companion Burzukh appeared to be shaping up to be quite a fighter.

The pair of Orcs took the hint, running off to join their comrades in ransacking the house. The Valkynaz relaxed and stepped back, his back almost touching the door.

After about five minutes, during which the house was mostly ripped apart and smoke from the burning village was visible through the windows, the door opened and Gorgoth walked out, fully armoured, helmet hanging from a hook on his sword belt. Kathutet, closing the door behind him, gave the naked, moaning, bloodstained Breton only a quick glance. Gorgoth had hidden her daughter well; she was nowhere in sight. Presumably, she was paralysed with fear.

"We're done here," announced Gorgoth, leading the way down the stairs and out of the door. His face was emotionless as usual. Just another day in his life.

* * *

"So," finished Gorgoth, eyeing the simmering Callia, who had gone even paler, "Do you deny that I saved your life? Because I'm sure your violation by several large Orcs would have been the end of you." Renault wore a look of slight horror and surprise, her lips slightly parted, while Jauffre's face was unreadable, the Grandmaster obviously deep in thought.

Callia glared at Gorgoth, who merely waited patiently, arms folded. "No," she admitted, the words dragged out of her. "I guess I _do_ owe you my life, but that does _not_ mean you are anything more than a monster." She spat, her saliva staining the otherwise dry stone floor of Jauffre's office.

Gorgoth snorted. "That is your viewpoint," he said dismissively. Turning to Jauffre, he unfolded his arms and rested his fists on the Breton's desk, leaning forwards. "When Sharoth was annexed by Orsinium a month later, King Gortwog put our laws in place and backdated them for three months," he told the Breton. "What I did was legal."

"_Legal_?" snarled Callia, her voice furious, she stepped forward, starting to draw her katana, but was held back by Renault's warning glance and a hand on her shoulder. "You killed my mother, killed half our village, burnt it down, and expect to _get away_ with it?"

"And what would you do, deprive Cyrodiil of the 'Hero of Kvatch' in a time of crisis?" growled Gorgoth, putting emphasis on the title that the population had attached to his name.

"We don't _need_ you-"

"On the contrary, Callia," sighed Jauffre, finally deciding to get involved. "We _do_ need him. I doubt the gods could have provided us with a more able agent." He waved down Callia's protests and stood. "Gorgoth, it is fortunate for you that I judge a man on who his is at the present, not on what he has done in the past. You were forced to carry out those raids, were you not?"

"Yes, I was," confirmed Gorgoth. "But, if I had to do it again, I would, if the reason was good enough." He leaned further forward on Jauffre's desk, eyes level with the Breton's. "If anything is worth fighting for, then I do not care how many I torture or murder as long as I see it done," he rumbled. Renault winced. Straightening, Gorgoth folded his arms. "You are my commander, for the moment, Jauffre. I will accept any decision you make."

Jauffre paused, sitting back down, closing his eyes and slowly running a hand over his face, looking every one of his eighty-one years, and more. "So far, since joining the Blades, you have done nothing to make me question the trust I've put in you," he said slowly, his voice tight with anger. "For now... for now, I will take no action. I sincerely hope that it is not the wrong decision. I hope I can continue to trust you."

Gorgoth grunted. "I swore an oath," he muttered, anger stirring deep within him.

Callia, looking from Gorgoth to Jauffre, pounded her fist into her palm. "Grandmaster, you can't-"

"I can and I will, Knight Sister. Dismissed."

Looking utterly outraged, the small Breton repeatedly opened and closed her mouth, struggling for words, until Renault tapped her sharply on the shoulder. Straightening, Callia gave a grudging salute and stomped out, slamming the door behind her.

"You really are your father's son," snarled Renault, glaring at Gorgoth with anger evident in her pale features.

The Orc's head whipped around and he gave the Breton a freezing glare. "I am _not_ my father," he snarled emphatically. He turned back to Jauffre. "Are we done here?" he asked.

Sighing, the Grandmaster stood. His face as drawn, and his voice cold. "Gorgoth, what you have done may have been _legal_-" he grated the word through clenched teeth "- but I cannot possibly condone your continuing presence in the Blades after this crisis is over. Martin will be consulted over this at great length." The Breton leaned in closer, meeting Gorgoth's gaze, his eyes ablaze with rage. "If this were peacetime, Orc, I'd string you from the battlements and let the crows choke on your eyes." He straightened. "Get out of this fortress. I will send word when the next stage of translation is complete."

Gorgoth nodded, saluted, and turned sharply on his heel, swinging the door shut behind him.

Captain and Grandmaster stared at the closed door for a few minutes. Renault eventually broke the silence. "He really is an enigma," she muttered, rubbing her forehead.

Gorgoth made his way through the fortress, returning the greetings of various Blades, heading towards the East Barracks. He swung open the door to find, predictably, that Lurog and Gnaeus were glaring at each other.

"I'm fine with scouting, Gorgoth, but not if you lump me with this... this..." Gnaeus trailed off into incomprehensible splutters. Lurog merely glanced at Gorgoth and raised an eyebrow, as if to say: _is he always like this?_

"It is simple; Lurog has information that you do not, and it would be too complex to tell you, so he goes with you," Gorgoth told him, walking over and staring down at the Imperial. "Besides, if you get caught, no doubt you'd want a capable warrior at your back. Lurog is one of the best I know."

Gnaeus threw up his hands in defeat. "Fine," he spat. "I just hope this bloody half-wit knows how to move quietly." He turned before either of them could respond and marched out of the barracks, slinging saddlebags over his shoulder.

"Stay calm, Lurog, I'd prefer that his report is delivered through unbroken teeth," instructed Gorgoth.

"It looks like I'll have to draw on those lessons on discipline you gave me," groaned Lurog, his voice wry. "You need not worry. It's important. I'll make sure he gets back to you safely. With the information." The Orc knuckled his forehead and departed, following Gnaeus out of the barracks. Gorgoth leaned back against the stone wall of the barracks and sighed, allowing himself a rare moment of relaxation. The length of the shadows visible through the doorway indicated that it was getting late, and he hadn't eaten for hours. His stomach rumbled menacingly to remind him, and, in reaction, his scar sent a twinge of pain through his stomach. The Orc grunted and went off to find the canteen. He'd sleep in the barracks tonight, and depart for the Imperial City in the morning. He had important business to attend to.

* * *

The sun was slowly sinking behind the Jeralls to the west as Selene and Glenroy finally reached the foot of Cloud Ruler Temple and dismounted. As the gates screeched open, they took the reins of their horses and wearily started to lead them up the steps. Selene's spell had buried their fatigue deep within them, but it had not eradicated it, and a day's hard riding after rising at dawn was not conductive to rest. Both were looking forward to their beds, particularly as they had both effectively taken up residence in the Royal Wing in rooms designed for nobles. Glenroy claimed that he couldn't sleep far from Martin's door, and Selene claimed that it was inconvenient for her to keep walking to Martin's chambers from the East Barracks every morning.

Steffan was the first to greet them, striding down the steps and bellowing for men to fetch the horses. He grinned widely and clapped a hand on both their shoulders. "It's closed, I take it?" he asked.

"Emphatically," reported Glenroy. "For now, at least, Bravil is safe."

"Good on you," smiled Steffan, gripping Glenroy's shoulder firmly while moving his other hand up to ruffle Selene's hair. She snorted with laughter and ducked out from under his grasp as two Blades materialised to take the four horses. "Knew we could always count on you. Martin's in his quarters."

"I thought he would be," muttered Selene. "Hasn't he ever left them? He spends too much time with that bloody book." Not waiting for an answer, she sped up and walked quickly off in the direction of the Royal Wing. Glenroy and Steffan exchanged glances.

"You know, I think-" started Glenroy.

"I think so too," responded Steffan, a wry grin spreading over his face. "Good job today, Knight Brother. Carry on." He saluted and walked off. Glenroy returned the salute and followed Selene, albeit at a slower pace, towards the Royal Wing. On the way, he was congratulated by the handful of Blades still dotting the courtyard. It wasn't every day a Blade got to grips with the enemy in such a fashion.

More than a handful clearly wanted a blow-by-blow tale of his and Selene's exploits, but he was able to fend them off fairly easily. They were all soldiers; they knew what exhaustion was like, and respected his desire for a rest. They'd get the story tomorrow, probably when he was cleaning his armour. For now, all he desired was the large, soft bed that he and Baurus taken for their own temporarily. The Imperial knew that Jauffre didn't approve, and was surprised that the Grandmaster hadn't ordered him out yet. Maybe Martin had something to do with it. Glenroy wasn't intending to make the move permanent; it was simply a matter of convenience when protecting Martin.

He had removed his helmet and hung it from a hook on his sword belt by the time he reached the corridor leading the Martin's quarters, which was predictably being guarded by Baurus. Upon seeing his comrade, the Redguard's face broke into a grin and he hurried towards him to grasp his shoulder. "Good on you, Glenroy," he congratulated. "That makes it the first Oblivion Gate closed directly by the Blades. Can't let Gorgoth get that many up on us, eh?" He laughed.

Glenroy returned his grin as they slowly started back towards the slightly ajar door to Martin's quarters. "It was bloody hard work," he informed his fellow Knight Brother. "Without Selene, I'd have had no chance. She's worth three of us at least, for definite."

"Do the battlemages always have to hog all the glory?" Baurus shook his head and snorted. "No, no, she deserves it. If closing one is an achievement, closing two is an incredible feat. Unless you're the Hero of Kvatch, then it's just another article in the job description." Barking a laugh, the Redguard motioned towards the door. "Pelagius was filling in for your shifts while you were gone. I think Martin wanted to see you when you got back."

Glenroy nodded and gave two sharp raps on the door. Martin's voice instantly summoned him and he pushed it open. The heir to the throne was leaning back in his chair, the Mysterium Xarxes pushed away from him, wearing the same tattered robe as usual. Selene was pacing around behind him, haranguing him on how he shouldn't have spent so much time on translation. Judging by Martin's calm smile, he was managing to ignore it. He rose immediately and offered Glenroy his hand, pumping the Imperial's fist up and down vigourously. "I knew I could count on you," he congratulated, cutting Selene off in mid-word.

"Only my duty, Sire," responded Glenroy, straightening and standing rigidly at attention.

Martin laughed. "At ease, man, at ease," he told him, waving for him to relax. "You've gone into Oblivion to save an entire city. That's beyond the call of duty."

"I was ordered to save Bravil by closing an Oblivion Gate, so I, with help, saved Bravil by closing an Oblivion Gate,"reported Glenroy, relaxing his spine slightly and clasping his hands together behind his back. "That is the duty of a Blade. I live to serve you." He put an emphasis on _'_you'; Martin _was_ the Emperor.

Martin chuckled and turned to Selene. "It seems that the Blades are commendable for even more attributes than I thought possible," he remarked. She smiled, not turning from her study of Volendrung. "Well, you must be tired after all that strenuous duty," said Martin, turning back to Glenroy. "You're dismissed, Glenroy. When I next see him, I'll inform Jauffre of your dedication to the duty. For now, get some rest." He sighed. "We'll probably all need it in the coming days. You too, Selene. You look half-dead on your feet."

Selene sighed and turned to walk past Martin to the door, waving a finger at him as she passed. "Remember, don't work too hard," she admonished, her message somewhat diluted by her wide smile. "I'll be back to help with translation tomorrow." She left the room. Glenroy executed a perfect half-bow, half-salute and turned smartly on his heel, walking out and closing the door behind him. He nodded to Baurus and, feeling his fatigue keenly, headed for the door to his bedroom.

Selene had paused with her hand on the door to her own borrowed quarters, which were across the corridor and one down from where he and Baurus had set up camp. "Glenroy?" she asked, her voice sounding somewhat unsteady.

Glenroy turned from his door. "Yes?"

"This is only ever going to get harder, isn't it?"

Sighing, Glenroy pushed himself away from his door and walked over to her. She was right; the hordes of Oblivion were not mindless. They would learn from whatever defeats that were inflicted upon them. "Yes," he confirmed. "It will. But we are strong. Two of us closed that gate; even if the Daedra grow stronger, we have the ability, for now, to hold them back.."

She sighed and looked up at him, green eyes concerned. Clearly, she still wasn't fully convinced. "Selene, we have Gorgoth on our side. He can wipe out an Oblivion gate while eating lunch. We've got him, we've got the entire Blades, we've got you... Selene, we can't lose."

"I wish I shared your confidence," she muttered, blinking several times. "I guess you're right, though; if we get this translation done, Gorgoth can do what needs doing and everything can go back to normal."

Glenroy took a step back and nodded, wondering what 'normal' would be for her. "Believe it, and it will happen," he told her. He snapped to attention and gave an inch-perfect salute, before turning to enter his own quarters.

Her voice stopped him. "Why always so formal, Glenroy?" she asked. He turned and noted her smirk. "I'm not Martin, and I'm not a Blade."

"I've been in the Blades for twelve years," explained Glenroy "Maybe it's ingrained." His face twitched as a smile tugged at a corner of his mouth. "Either way, I respect you like a Blade."

"I feel honoured," remarked Selene. "But, for now, I'm just who I am." She yawned widely. "We'd better do as Martin said and get some rest. Good night." She reached up and hugged him. Glenroy returned the hug, despite knowing that his grime-streaked armour would leave dirt on her bare back.

"Good night, Selene," he repeated as he pulled back.. "I might have just been doing my duty, but Bravil probably wouldn't be standing without you. Sleep well." With that, he retreated back into his chambers.

There was no doubt that it hadn't been made to host soldiers; the bed was unmade, and the bootprints of both he and Baurus marred the fine carpets. He unbuckled his armour and dropped it carefully onto the floor, making sure it was close to hand if needed, but in this well-protected part of the Temple, he'd have ample time to prepare himself if intruders were spotted. Opening the window slightly to let a cool breeze waft into the room, Glenroy removed his filthy clothing – he had some more stored under the bed for convenience – and dropped into the soft mattress of the expansive double bed. Jauffre might argue that luxury softened a man, but, at that moment, Glenroy really couldn't care less.

* * *

**A/N: That's your lot for now. Remember to review this, and remember to read and review Brothers in Arms, because you will not regret it.**


	27. The Blood of Heroes

**A/N: Well, nine reviews last chapter wasn't bad, I guess. I've had better, I'd had worse, though special thanks must go to Pale White Shadow and his bionic eyes for managing to read this whole thing so quickly.**

**Random reader: Hmm, fragging could be an intriguing option, though obviously it'd have to be called something else as the frag grenade doesn't exist in Oblivion. As for Martin's daedric experiences... I haven't decided on that one yet. There's a lot I still haven't decided on, in fact...**

**Underpaid Critic: Yes, this incident WILL be used in future. While not willing to give too many spoilers, it might even make an appearance in another planned fic of mine, we'll just have to see what happens.**

**Cola1806: Better late than never. In my personal opinion, Maglir is more annyoing than the Adoring Fan...**

**And so ends this author's note. Don't forget to review.**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-seven: The Blood of Heroes**

The Imperial City had not changed much since Gorgoth had last been there. Clouds overhead blocked out the sun and the autumn winds chilled the air, but life largely went on, the same as normal. The Market District was crammed full of bustling shoppers as was usual for that time of day just past noon, when lunch had finished and normal business had resumed. However, from his viewpoint near a guard post next to the gates leading to the Arena, Gorgoth could sense a slight undercurrent of fear. There was not much – no direct danger threatened this city – but fear of Oblivion was spreading through the Empire. Word had spread of Kvatch, and of Daedric armies threatening Morrowind and Hammerfell in particular. The Oblivion Gates outside Chorrol and Bravil had proved that it could happen anywhere. Gorgoth could see the words on the lips of some citizens: _It surely couldn't happen here, could it? It couldn't happen to us_._ It can't_. What one man said, ten men thought. They were scared.

Gorgoth was not here to learn about the rising unease in the Imperial City. He cared nothing for its inhabitants, and thought them weak and prone to unnecessary fear. Instead, he was here to reclaim what was his. After leaving Cloud Ruler Temple yesterday morning – not wanting to provoke Jauffre's rage any further than he already had by staying the night - he had arrived in the Imperial City shortly after sunrise, and had spent the last half-hour in casual conversation with the gate guards. It turned out that General Adamus Phillida, Commander of the Imperial Legion, liked to patrol the City sometimes to remind himself of what he was defending. With no campaigns being fought, he had been stationed in the Imperial City for some time, governing his legions from afar, delegating responsibilities to his legates, and making occasional appearances on the Council of Elders to argue for increased military spending.

Apparently, he also took the time to claim prizes from Orcs he'd never even met, let alone fought.

Guardsman Primo Varius, who had been on duty for the last two hours, had welcomed the opportunity to pass the time by talking with the Hero of Kvatch, even if those questions did seem to edge towards probing when discussing the subject of General Phillida. Still, it was a welcome break from the normal monotony of guard duty. "He should be coming through here shortly," Varius told the Orc, who was leaning casually on the wall next to him, arms folded, watching the main street with those cold amber eyes. "It's not like the General to be delayed. He's always punctual."

Gorgoth grunted. Punctuality was vital in any military. After forty years service as a general, Phillida would naturally know that. "You would say he was a man of honour?" he asked, despite already knowing the answer. Varius clearly regarded his commander with reverence.

The Imperial snorted. "He's done more for us legionnaires than any of his predecessors in recent memory," he explained. "When on campaign, he always shared the discomforts of the men – well, most of them – rather than keep his hands clean and stay in his massive tent, like he's entitled to. And, yes, he's always treated everyone I can remember with honour. Hard but fair."

Tapping his canine, Gorgoth leant his head back until it was leaning on the wall. From what the guardsman was saying, Phillida didn't seem like the type to have taken Blood King without ever having even met it's previous wielder. There was probably more than met the eye in this case. Whatever the truth, Gorgoth had little doubt that Phillida knew nothing of the true power of the weapon that he'd stolen. While the weapon had changed hands many times over the centuries, there had never been more than one wielder at the same time, and Gorgoth could still feel his connection to the mighty weapon pricking at him, urging him to reclaim what was his.

His thoughts were interrupted by Varius. "I made a transfer request two days ago," observed the Guardsman. "I'm fed up with standing here until falling on my sword seems like a welcome release from the boredom. I'm good with a blade, and I can hold my place in a shield wall. I'm transferring to the Fourth Legion. If all goes well, I'll be patrolling Elsweyr within a year, maybe putting down a few local rebellions. Better than standing around looking shiny." The Imperial spat into the dust.

"Have you ever been on a military campaign?" asked Gorgoth, turning and casting an analytical glance over the Guardsman. He was of average height and stocky build, with a bluff face and observant brown eyes. Having clearly seen no more than twenty-five winters, he was young yet, but the hard set to his features indicated that he'd seen action at least once. He was bloodied, Gorgoth was sure of that.

Varius shook his head. "I've only ever been on guard duties since joining the Legion four years back," he explained. "But sitting in the barracks, listening to old veterans who have been on campaign... yes, there's years of rain, mud, sweat, dirty work, boredom... but to stand in a shield wall with the rest of my century, to stare into the face of some rebel as he tries to kill me, to bring glory to the Empire... it's worth it." A fanatical gleam entered the Imperial's eyes, and he thumped his cuirass, the steel ringing with almost as much conviction as his voice.

Gorgoth nodded slowly. "A worthy cause," he rumbled. Movement caught his eye, and immediately he straightened, unfolding his arms. A heavyset Imperial in the polished, decorated, heavy armour of a serving general was approaching the gate, flanked by two bodyguards. A thick purple plume on the crest of the helmet tucked under the general's arm symbolised the wearer's rank of Commander of the Legions. The man himself was old and weathered, with thick lines deep-set in his leathery, blunt face, and the complete absence of any hair meant that the lining of the helmet was likely to be thickly padded. However, his blue eyes were as sharp as any eagle's, and the deadly grace of his movements indicated that he could still handle a blade better than most of the men in his Legions.

One thing drew Gorgoth's eyes more than any other feature as Phillida approached the guard station, and it was the mace strapped on his back, slanted across the ornate, silver-worked claymore. Blood King, in contrast to the other weapon, was relatively simple in appearance, brutal and purposeful in design. Steel forged from Wrothgarian iron was normally far darker than normal steel, being dark grey in appearance, but Blood King was black as the void, for reasons known only to the Orc who had forged and enchanted it. A five-foot haft, with ridges for better grip near the bottom, was topped by a massive head, boasting eight flanges easily capable of penetrating the thickest armour when correctly applied. Even when not in the hands of the wielder, the weapon had an air of distinct menace about it, some indication of the thousands of lives it had taken over the centuries.

Phillida briskly ascended the steps to the gate, returning the salutes of the two Guardsmen on duty. Satisfied that all was well, he made to enter the Arena District, but paused when Gorgoth moved past Varius to approach him. The general's bodyguards let their hands rest casually on the hilts of their broadswords, both keeping half an eye on Gorgoth as they continued to watch for danger. Giving Phillida no chance to speak, Gorgoth planted himself firmly in front of the general.

"General Phillida," began Gorgoth, inclining his head respectfully. "I am Gorgoth gro-Kharz, known by some as the Hero of Kvatch. Do you have a few moments to spare?"

Phillida's eyes were clearly used to taking the measure of a man within moments as his gaze took in Gorgoth's heavy built, his battered plate armour, and the Akaviri dai-katana on his back. Folding his arms, he thought for a few seconds. "For the man who saved Kvatch, I can spare a few moments," he confirmed, voice gruff and slightly hoarse from bellowing commands for over forty years.

Seeing that Phillida was waiting for him to speak, Gorgoth grunted. "I'd prefer it to be in private," he muttered, lowering his voice furtively. Behind him, Varius was clearly straining his ears.

The general gave Gorgoth another long, searching look. "Very well," he barked, turning smartly on his heel. "To the barracks it is. I hope this is worth it."

"It will be," growled Gorgoth as he fell in beside the Imperial and his bodyguards, moving at a quick march. As they moved through the throng of the Market District, Phillida's bodyguards clearing a passage, conversation was limited; Gorgoth wasn't willing to discuss his mace in public, and Phillida clearly wasn't one for idle conversation. The silence continued as they made their way across the bridge that connected the Market District to the Prison District, which also played host to a large part of the city's garrison. There was no doubt that Phillida was entitled to a room in the palace, but his willingness to sleep with his men was no surprise to Gorgoth.

As the steel-reinforced gates creaked open slightly to admit them, Gorgoth realised that he had come through this very courtyard on his first entrance to Cyrodiil. However, even if any guard recognised him, he'd had Uriel's pardon; that should have been circulated by the Blades by now. Phillida moved briskly across the courtyard, returning salutes and exchanging a few words with officers, heading towards one of the larger barracks that were lined up on one side of the district. Simple in construction, its sole purpose was to hold up to a hundred men in adequate conditions. Clearly, it managed to do this quite well. Phillida saluted the sole guard and pushed the door open, his bodyguards ushering Gorgoth through behind him before turning to wait outside.

The barracks was basic; rows of double bunks stretched from near the door to the far end of the structure, with no other furniture save for a table that hosted a lamp, presumably for the officer in charge of the barracks. Most of the barracks was vacant, with few of the bunks occupied. Phillida eased himself into the seat behind the table, relaxing slightly and looking up at Gorgoth, who, in the absence of any other chairs, stood with his back straight and arms folded. "Speak," invited Phillida.

"Where did you get that mace?" asked Gorgoth, his voice emotionless, eyes fixated on the head of Blood King, visible over the Imperial's right shoulder. It's head was as large as Phillida's.

A flicker of suspicion entered the general's eyes. "It was a gift from one of the prison officers," he responded slowly, eyes locked onto Gorgoth's, analysing his every reaction.

"And how did _he_ get that?"

Phillida leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowing. "Not that I believe it's any of your business, but he claimed that he took it as a prize from an Orcish barbarian, sentenced to death for rebellion."

Gorgoth's own eyes hardened. "And do you know what happened to that Orc?" he asked, voice dropping dangerously.

If the warrior-shaman's sudden malevolent air worried Phillida, he did not show it. "He was executed, I assume," he replied.

Shaking his head, Gorgoth took a step closer. "No. That prisoner did not choke his last on Imperial gallows. That prisoner had been thrown into a cell that was part of an Imperial escape route." Phillida's eyes sharpened; clearly, he understood the implications already. "That prisoner witnessed the assassination of the Emperor. In his last act, the Emperor pardoned that prisoner, and told him to save Tamriel, to close shut the jaws of Oblivion." Gorgoth's voice was rising with every word, freezing fire appearing in his eyes. "That prisoner went to Kvatch and closed the Oblivion Gate. That prisoner brought the Empire's last heir from the ashes of Kvatch to the safety of Cloud Ruler Temple." Gorgoth's eyes were now boring into Phillida's skull. "That prisoner stands before you now, Phillida, and he is demanding the return of what is his!" At the last word, Gorgoth's armoured fist slammed down on the table, cracking the wood and toppling the unlit lamp.

Phillida did not flinch; instead, he regarded Gorgoth calmly for a few seconds, before standing and reaching for the mace on his back. He removed it from its straps smoothly, hefted it with both hands, clearly at ease with its weight. Gorgoth ruthlessly repressed the urge to grab his mace. "Tell me..." muttered Phillida, glancing down at Blood King's head before looking back up at Gorgoth. "What is so special about this mace?"

The Orc straightened once again, masking the desire raging through ever fibre of his being. It was not just his own desire; Blood King itself was calling to him, weapon to wielder, demanding that he end their separation. "It was forged early in the Third Era," he explained, recalling the history of the ancient weapon. "Durz gro-Gurakh, one of the most powerful shamans of the period, not to mention a master armourer, forged it in his stronghold deep within the Wrothgarian mountains. When he had finished, he called upon Malacath to imbue the weapon with the power of the Orcish people. Using Durz's body as a conduit, Malacath did so." Gorgoth's gaze dropped once more to the weapon. "His body could not survive the process, so the first wielder was Matuk gro-Dragol, his apprentice and a master warrior."

"I have never felt any enchantment," interrupted Phillida, frowning down at the mace.

"That is because you are not the wielder," explained Gorgoth. "Malacath would not tolerate any weak wielders, so the only way to claim Blood King is to defeat another wielder – of whom there have been many, over the years - in battle and take the mace as your own. That is the only way it will accept you, the only way to use it's full power. I gained it that way, three years ago..." Gorgoth's eyes hardened as the mere memory pained him. A shattered ribcage, punctured lungs, and several other broken bones had been his price. He snapped back to the present. "You have not killed me, Phillida, so you do not deserve it. Likely, you never will; you are no Orc."

If Phillida was insulted, he kept it concealed as he motion for Gorgoth to continue. "What is this enchantment you speak of?"

"It is hard to understand, let alone explain," muttered Gorgoth, tapping his canine. "Malacath infused it with the power of the Orcish people; the power of the weapon itself decreases and increases depending on the wielder and his situation. It draws power from me, and I from it; it waxes and wanes in power according to my state of mind, from the effects of the heat of battle; as I sleep, the enchantment would be barely noticeable. In a hard duel, full of glory, it would awaken, to become a truly devastating weapon. In a pitched battle, with the dead and dying all around me, with enemies all around me, the adrenaline pumping through my blood..." A dangerous gleam appeared in Gorgoth's eyes. "Then, I doubt any weapon on Nirn can match its power."

"But what does the enchantment actually _do_?" asked Phillida, persisting.

"Power," grunted Gorgoth. "Pure power. The swing of the mace itself is enough to shatter bones and snap spines. The power of the enchantment merely... increases that. When at full strength, it..." Gorgoth closed his eyes, momentarily savouring the memories. "I remember once hitting a Breton pikeman, from horseback, at full power. Most of his body disintegrated immediately, but was what left of him flew into a squad with so much power that few of _them_ survived the impact." The fanatical gleam faded from Gorgoth's eyes. "So you see, Phillida... you see why I want my mace back."

Phillida rubbed his chin, the head of Blood King drooping dangerously as his single hand attempted to hold the heavy weapon straight. "You are the Hero of Kvatch, of that I have no doubt," he muttered. "And... you were captured in Orsinium, correct?" Gorgoth nodded. "I know for a fact that the prison officer who took it as a 'prize' has never left Cyrodiil, so he clearly did not deserve it in the first place. By extension, _I_ do not deserve it." The Imperial grasped Blood King and held it out with both hands. "Take it. I feel more at home with my claymore."

Gorgoth slowly reached out and wrapped both hands around the black haft, easing it out of Phillida's grip. The second it left the Imperial's clutches, a torrent of pure power cascaded from the weapon, threatening to overwhelm him. Gorgoth battled it back ferociously, wresting the power down to a manageable level, bringing the weapon firmly under his control. On the outside, the mace appeared to grow even darker, seeming to pulse with the pure energy coursing through it. Phillida cocked an eyebrow.

"May I never face _this_ on the field of battle," he muttered.

Gorgoth ignored him, hefting Blood King easily with one hand. He could do exactly the same with a mace of comparable weight, of course, but Blood King was not merely an extension of his arm, it was part of his very being. Deprived of its wielder's strong arm for so long, it was crying out with a desire for blood, to take souls, but Gorgoth resisted the temptation and slotted it through the belt on his back, the same belt that held his dai-katana in place. When requesting the belt from the Blades, he has specifically ordered a section be made to hold Blood King, in anticipation of his reclaiming it. It was a comforting weight on his back.

"You are a man with at least some honour, General," praised Gorgoth, delivering a salute, fist to heart. "Many would have made some attempt to keep what is not theirs by right. Your death would have caused me much regret, should I have been forced to take action."

Phillida raised an eyebrow but remained silent on the veiled threat. "I'll say that I'm glad you're not on the other side," he grunted, returning Gorgoth's salute. "Off with you, Hero of Kvatch. It's good to know that we have someone with enough power to make Dagon's knees quake." Gorgoth gave a farewell nod and left, the bodyguards outside understandably confused when they saw him walk out with their general's mace on his back, wasting no time in hurrying in before the door had shut to check on him.

Walking slowly across the courtyard, with the intention of leaving the City immediately to head off to Bravil, Gorgoth was feeling more confident than he had for months. Now that he had Blood King at his disposal, he could probably deal with whatever Dagon chose to throw at him. And in the coming days, Gorgoth had a feeling that whatever edge the Blades could find would be essential.

* * *

It was soon after midday when Ilend returned to the Fighter's Guildhall, a secretive, pleased smile on his face as he ignored Fadus's greeting and headed upstairs, covertly keeping a small bundle of cloth hidden in his fist. Agnete had done very fine work very quickly – it had only been two days since Ilend had commissioned his order - and for that he had been willing to pay a premium. Safe in the knowledge that Aerin was out the back, competing with Parwen to see who could be the most accurate from increasingly ludicrous distances, Ilend walked quickly over to his bed and shoved the bundle between the mattress and the frame. It was an unwritten rule in the Skingrad Guild that each member had his own bed, and that any other member who touched that bed or anything on or below it would be unprotected from the wrath of the offended Guildsman. It worked well.

Straightening from his bed, Ilend sighed and knuckled his back. The massage he'd received from Aerin the night before had loosened his muscles considerably, but there was no obscuring the fact that work was now becoming increasingly hard to come by, with no contracts for days. Back in Kvatch, the local Guild had been kept busy, but now that Guildhall was no more, along with most of its members. With most of his time being his own, it would never be as boring as guard duty had been, but Ilend was starting to feel a familiar craving for action.

With nothing else to do in the Guildhall, the Imperial went for a stroll in the weak sunshine, the clouds frequently obscuring the sun and making the day seem colder. The cold autumnal winds succeeded where many blades had failed and cut through his chainmail and clothing, chilling his skin. Ignoring the cold, Ilend walked aimlessly over to the northeast section, passing the expansive mansions and houses, nodding to the guards on patrol duty. The guards posted at the East Gate looked bored beyond belief. Ilend, with his ability to empathise with them, was ready to go over and start talking when his attention was diverted by the town's resident paranoid Bosmer.

Glarthir had beckoned frantically to him from his position in the narrow alley between two mansions, and was hissing for him to come quickly. Sighing and rolling his eyes, Ilend dragged his feet over to the alley. The short, skinny Bosmer – no doubt half-starved due to fear of poison – had moved back down the alley at a crouch to avoid detection. "What do you want, Glarthir?" asked Ilend, standing up straight, making the height difference between them seem even greater.

"Not so loud," whispered Glarthir, his eyes darting, never resting in one place for more than a second. The Wood Elf's brown hair was lank, falling over his face, partially obscuring the fanatical gleam in his pale green eyes. "You never know who might be listening." The Bosmer spoke haltingly, checking every so often to make sure that no-one was straining to listen in.

Ilend folded his arms. "You know I'm not attracted by your foolish schemes, Glarthir," he told the Wood Elf, making no effort to lower his voice. "So why do you persist?"

Glarthir made frantic hushing motions with his hands. "Because you are not chained by the-"

"Give it a fucking rest," spat Ilend. "You're a bloody lunatic, a fucked-up paranoid half-wit who spends his entire life looking over his fucking shoulder. You're only tolerated because you couldn't hurt somebody if you tried. Now piss off and leave me alone." Not waiting for a reaction from the shocked Wood Elf, the Imperial turned on his heel and left the alley.

He'd gone three paces when he stopped, frowning. The day seemed to have darkened. He looked up and grunted as black clouds appeared to be rolling in, quickly, by the looks of it. Shaking his head, he turned to walk back to the Guildhall. He had no intention of being caught in heavy rain without a cloak. Something caught his eye, and he froze. The wind was vainly plucking at the flag of Skingrad hanging outside a mansion, failing to move it even slightly. Even accounting for the protection of the walls, the wind required to make those clouds approach so swiftly would be stretching the flag to it's limit. Head growing heavy with horrific realisation, Ilend once again looked up at the sky. Those black clouds had spread from horizon to horizon. No natural cloud would do that.

"_Oblivion_!" The roar of alarm came from one of the sentries posted on the wall above the gate, frantically waving down at those below him. "Inform the captains! Oblivion Gate outside the walls! Move, you lazy bastards!" Two of the guards at the East Gate needed no further prompting, running off to find Dion and Danus Artellian. Ilend himself was only frozen for a second longer before launching himself down the street, pushing people out of the way as he sprinted towards the Guildhall as quickly as his heavy chainmail would allow.

By the time he had reached the Guildhall, the sky had advanced into its fully Oblivion-influenced state, a boiling cauldron of black and dark red clouds swirling overhead. A bright red glow to the east indicated the exact position of the Oblivion Gate. Word spread fast; civilians were already running to the west, just as companies of soldiers were hustled from their barracks and sent to the east wall. Ilend kicked open the doors to the Guildhall and stomped in, filling his lungs.

"_Look alive, you slugs_!" he bellowed, loud enough to be clearly heard in the Mage's Guild a few buildings down. "Oblivion Gate to the east! To arms!" There was a crash from the lounge as Fadus fell off his chair. Ah-Malz came tearing out of his office, past Ilend, and out into the street, taking one look at the sky before sprinting back in, adding his voice to Ilend's, whipping the Guildsmen into action.

Within minutes, the entire Guild was assembled in the hall, hefting weapons, the four Associates looking nervous and edging closer to their more experienced superiors. Ilend had grabbed his shield and was already regretting his lack of a helmet as Ah-Malz paced up and down the hall, haranguing the Guildsmen. "And just remember: If you don't hold whatever the Guard tell you to hold, then this city will burn, and it'll be _your fucking fault_! So, eyes in front, keep your shields high and your weapons singing, and don't die until you've got a pile of corpses stacked up front of you! _Move out_!" He motioned with his drawn claymore and led his men out of the Guildhall. Ilend stepped back and let most of them pass, barking for Aerin and Parwen to stay with him. Both Bosmer turned, arrows bristling from full quivers, bows in hand, ready to scale the wall and fire down on the Daedra that would surely soon be attacking.

"We're not going to save the city by defence alone," he told them, motioning for them to fall in beside him as he started jogging towards the East Gate. Aerin, knowing what he meant, sighed in resignation. "I'll need you two to come with me to close that bloody thing; good archers aren't common in the Skingrad Guard, and I doubt many will volunteer for this suicide mission."

Parwen stopped dead in her tracks. "Ilend, you expect _me_ to go in there?" she asked, voice dripping with scorn. "Unless you've suddenly lost your wits, you _know_ I outrank you, so-" She cut off abruptly as Ilend, fury in his eyes, laid his bared steel across her throat.

"You have a choice, _Protector_," snarled Ilend, holding his daedric blade steady. "Either you do what I say and help save this city, or don't, and aid its downfall. Your fucking choice. I should mention that if you go for the latter I'll spill your guts right here. Neither I nor Skingrad have any time for malingerers."

Parwen's eyes, wide with shock, searched for Aerin, and found her fellow Bosmer standing back from the spectacle, testing her bowstring. "We'll do this your way," stammered Parwen, relaxing when Ilend nodded and removed the blade from her neck.

"Good. Now, watch my back while I try to find Dion. I'll need his support if we're going to have any chance." The Imperial set off for the East Gate once again, the two archers trailing in his wake. Shouts and sounds of battle were already reaching their ears; the Daedra were not wasting time. Apparently, most of the civilians had either fled to the western end of the city to take refuge in the Chapel, or had barricaded their own homes. The streets were empty save for yet more companies of troops heading for the wall at a double march, with years of discipline, instilled by their very capable commander, eroding most of their fear.

The East Gate was alive with activity, detachments of troops ransacking nearby houses for anything that could be used as a barricade, with more taking up positions behind the gate with spears hastily fetched from the armoury. With no tower shields to hide behind, they would be vulnerable, but at least with spears the second rank could add to the number of weapons facing the daedra at any one time if they broke through. Yet more guardsmen lined the wall, companies of archers working furiously, the snap of bowstrings incessant. Ilend spotted Dion marching back and forth along the wall by the distinctive black-and-red crest on the Imperial's helmet, bellowing orders and encouragement to his soldiers.

Rushing up the stone steps to gain access to the wall, the Imperial paused to assess the situation below. A gate to Oblivion, taller than the city wall, was positioned directly in front of the city's East Gate, just out of bowshot range. Corpses strewn over the road indicated the first failed attempt to rush the Gate as the Guard struggled to mobilise. Behind a screen of lesser Daedra, who were being shot down by the archers with rapidity, a company of Dremora were hauling a thick steel ladder towards a section of the wall, their shields and armour doing a good job of defending them from the hail of arrows battering at them. Several fell, but others took up the slack, and more ladders were emerging from the Gate.

Ripping his eyes from the battlefield, Ilend beckoned to Aerin and Parwen and sprinted down the wall, shouting for Dion. The Guard Captain turned and grunted in appreciation. "Good that you're here, Vonius," he growled as Ilend reached him. "We need men with your experience here. You got any advice?"

"Plenty, but you won't like it," muttered Ilend, motioning the experienced Imperial to the inner edge of the wall. "The only way to stop this relentless attack – and it will be relentless, believe me – is to go into that gate and close it. I'll willingly lead the strike, but I'll need a squad of your best men."

Dion pursued his lips, his lined face thoughtful. "What are the chances of success if I gave you six swordsmen?" he asked, weighing up the risks.

Ilend sighed. "I can't promise anything, Dion. But it's the only chance we've got. Get the Mage's Guild up on this wall to blast us a hole, and I'll take six of your men, along with two Guildsmen, and try to close the Gate."

"And if you don't succeed?"

Ilend's face darkened. "I don't know how long it will take. We might even die before we take ten paces. Send messengers to get whatever help you c-"

"I already have. Don't think you know more about a military defence than a twenty-year veteran, Guildsman. I've got everything under control apart from closing the damn thing." Dion's gravelly voice had taken a sharper tone; he clearly didn't like a mercenary, even one under Imperial charter, attempting to give him orders on his own city wall.

Ilend took a deep breath. "If we haven't closed that gate by the time reinforcements arrive, then swarm it," he offered. "It's not perfect, I know, but it's the best I can offer."

Dion tapped the side of his helmet for a second, thinking. The crash of a ladder impacting against the wall snapped both of their heads around, but already a knot of guardsmen had succeeded in pushing it away from the wall. Falling, it crushed a handful of Dremora who had been too slow in running to escape its deadly path as archers opened up with renewed vigour. However, three more ladders were rapidly approaching different sections of the wall.

"_Where is the fucking Mage's Guild_?" roared Dion, face crimson with anger as he glared down into the city in an attempt to find members of the Skingrad branch of the Mage's Guild, who, at over fifteen strong and specialising in Destruction, might provide valuable magical firepower, enough to stem the tide. Already, a column of Dremora was emerging from the Gate, gripping what appeared to be a battering ram. Turning back to Ilend, Dion tapped him on the shoulder. "You'll get your men," he growled.

Ilend nodded, not wasting time expressing his gratitude. "Is there a side gate we can leave by?" he asked.

Dion nodded, raising his voice once again. "Denian! Macra! Ceno! Nirol! Hinald! Daron! To me!" Six guardsmen, each wielding a standard sword and shield, turned and stepped smartly from the ranks of guardsmen lining the wall. "All right, men, no time to explain, but you're going to save Skingrad today," started their Captain, walking down their line, looking into each face in turn, their helmets partially obscuring their features but still making it clear that there were four Imperials and two Redguards. "You're going to follow this oik-" he jabbed his thumb at Ilend, who rubbed his chin to conceal his smirk, recognising the captain's attempt to lighten the mood, "-into Oblivion. Try and make sure he doesn't trip over his own bloody feet. He helped close the one at Kvatch, so you'd assume he should be off his mother's apron strings, but you never know." A few of the men, despite the gravity of the situation, couldn't hide small smiles. It was a start. Ilend had also noted that, judging by their uniforms, they were all mere guardsmen, no Guard Sergeant to take nominal command. He, a mercenary, would be leading troops of the Imperial Legion.

"Go out through the lower side gate, the one behind Toutius Sextius' house," Dion was saying. "You know the one, Daron...? Good. Get on with it. I'll see you all back here with that Gate closed behind you and you all grinning like madmen, with leave of a week each. Off with you." The Guard Captain straightened and saluted his men, before turning and jogging off to where a ladder had slammed into the wall.

One of the Redguards beckoned to Ilend and his comrades, turning to lead them down the stone steps back to street level. Ilend paused for a moment. "Parwen! Aerin!" he shouted, his voice rising above the sound of battle. The two named Bosmer ran from where they had been firing down into the daedric ranks. "We're moving. Bows on your backs, we'll need mobility here." They nodded wordlessly, Parwen's face pale and drawn with fear, while Aerin's jaw was set in grim determination.

The heavy mail boots of the guardsmen and Ilend thumped noisily down the stone steps, the lighter padding of the leather boots of the archers almost silent in comparison. Ilend increased his pace momentarily to fall in beside the leading Redguard – Daron – who'd eased into a quick march. "The side gate is just down there," he told Ilend, pointing down a narrow alley between the city wall and a large house. "Leads straight out." Apparently, he was a man of few words, clamping his mouth shut again. Ilend nodded, patting his sword hilt to make sure the daedric blade was suitably loose in its scabbard.

Aerin moved up to jog beside Ilend as they entered the alley, Daron falling back. "What are our chances, Ilend?" she asked him in a tight voice. He shot her a sideways glance. Her face was largely void of emotion, though the normal sparkle of humour in her eyes had long vanished. At least she was able to hold whatever fear she was feeling in check.

"Shoot well, use us for protection, keep your wits about you, and we'll probably make it out," responded Ilend. "If that's not enough for you, I'd recommend prayer, but remember that you can always rely on the steel of your comrades." She nodded, checking her twin shortswords.

The side gate was a tiny oak door set in an archway, painted to blend in with the grey stones of the wall. After removing the heavy beam barring access to the door, Ilend had to duck in order to lead the way through. As Daron had said, the outer door led straight out into the shadows of an alcove, hidden from the eyes of the Daedra by a watch tower jutting out from the wall. Ilend silently motioned for his soldiers to line up behind him, then edged to the end of the square tower's base, peering around it.

Three ladders were in place, Dremora desperately attempting to swarm up them before they were pushed off, with two more fast approaching. The battering ram had made it halfway to the city gate when lightning bolts speared from the walls, blasting most of the squad of Dremora to pieces. Ilend ducked back around, a savage grin splitting his features. "The mages have finally got involved," he told the next soldier in line, one of the Imperial guardsmen. Not waiting for a response, he looked out again. Another collection of Daedra were charging from the Gate, ranging from lesser scamps to Storm Atronachs. Nothing emerged from behind them.

"Right, now or never," Ilend muttered. "Sprint as fast as you can, and don't stop until you're through the Gate. Ignore the burning sensation and be ready to fight as quickly as possible. Ready?" His question prompted a flurry of nods, some more confident than others. "For Skingrad," he finished, voice low but intense, leaping out from behind the cover of the tower and sprinting for the gate, which was side-on to them; a full-frontal assault would have been suicide. Speed and stealth would be their weapons until they closed the gap. Ilend put his head down and urged his legs to move faster, for once cursing his heavy chainmail and shield.

Halfway to the gate, already panting with the exertion, Ilend looked up, finding Aerin and Parwen on either side of him, the archer's lighter armour and equipment enabling them to keep pace with him easily. The clanking behind him told him that the rest of the squad was at least keeping up. A scamp's ears pricked up and it turned, squealing with both fear and rage as it somewhat foolishly darted into attack. Aerin and Parwen both sped up, running either side of the now confused daedra before Aerin sliced through its hamstring, leaving Parwen to crouch and slide her dagger into the back of its skull. Within seconds, they were sprinting again.

A lone clannfear emerged from the Gate, clicking angrily, presumably due to its late arrival. It turned, noted the approaching squad, and screeched in defiance, pawing the ground momentarily before launching itself at them. Ilend roared for Aerin and Parwen to get out of the way, drawing his own sword and rushing to meet the daedra. It closed the distance rapidly, leaping up and swiping at the Imperial. He raised his shield and blocked, wincing as the clannfear's entire body crashed into it, jarring his left arm painfully and forcing him to step back. As the daedra twisted, scrambling back to its feet, he moved in and chopped down at its arm, neatly removing one of its claws. As it hissed in pain and fury, another guard moved in unnoticed and sank his blade deep into its back.

"No more delays!" shouted Ilend, resuming his sprint towards the Gate, which was now close enough to make the squad flinch from the heat. He hefted his bloodied blade and thrust it in the direction of the flaming portal. "With me! To Oblivion!" Without further hesitation, he ran at the Gate and threw himself into the boiling cauldron of flames.

A few seconds later, the Imperial staggered out into Oblivion, desperately trying to suck air into his seared lungs while hefting his weapon and looking around for danger. Finding none in the immediate vicinity, he stepped aside to let his comrades through the Gate, all the while scanning the area. An open expanse of cracked earth around the Gate seemed to be well-suited for a forming-up ground, and it had apparently been well-used, judging by the flattened Bloodgrass and heavy bootprints. The Sigil Keep stood tall out of the otherwise flat landscape, which was broken in places by numerous rocky ridges channelling any forces through a series of narrow, winding paths in order to reach the tower. Two smaller towers were visible far off in the distance, beyond the Sigil Keep.

"Right, listen up," called Ilend, pausing to clear his throat, which was already almost dry. "That-" he pointed at the Sigil Keep "- is our target. We're going to go there as quickly as possible, grab the Sigil Stone, close the Gate, and save our city. Any questions?"

One of the Imperial guardsmen, straightening and recovering from the effects of his first entry into Oblivion, raised a hand. "How many daedra are we likely to face?" he asked, voice hoarse.

"Enough to give us one hell of a pain in the arse," responded Ilend. He turned and pointed to one of the pathways leading from the open area. "That looks like the most attractive path to me. We need to be out of here before more of their troops show up. Which I suspect they will be." The Imperial looked down at his drawn sword, the blood of the clannfear already drying and blackening. He swept most of it off with the back of his gauntlet. "I'll lead. You three-" his gesture took in two Imperials and a Redguard "- are in the front rank, with me. Aerin, Parwen, you're behind them with arrows nocked. The rest of you, bring up the rear. Holler if you see _anything_ amiss."

"It's sodding Oblivion," snarled one of the Imperials. "_Everything's_ amiss."

"Good point," agreed Ilend. "But you know what I mean. Now move out!"

It soon became clear that anything more than a jog in the oppressive, dry heat of Oblivion would swiftly run the heavily-armoured guardsmen into the ground, so Ilend settled for preservation over speed. After crossing the plain, they were nearing the entrance to the narrow valley when Ilend's ear caught the sound of heavy armour clanking, emanating from one of the passages to his left. He frantically hissed at his comrades to increase their speed, and they vanished into the relative safety of the passage just as a company of Dremora marched onto the plain.

"That was too bloody close,"he muttered as he watched the Dremora spread out and continue towards the Gate, carrying two ladders. "Keep moving, and let's hope there's none coming down here."

Fortunately, some god had chosen to smile upon them, or maybe they were just lucky; the only opposition immediately awaiting them were two clannfear and a spider daedra, all cut down by Aerin and Parwen before they could get close to the swordsmen. Ilend's pace meant that the two archers barely had time to retrieve their arrows. The Imperial maintained that it was inevitably only a matter of time before a squad of Dremora came down their present path, and the small squad had absolutely no possibility of surviving a straight fight with a company of over twenty disciplined, heavily armoured Kyn.

After five minutes of continuous advancing, the squad finally reached an end to the twisting pathway, leading to a sizeable plateau that stretched from the rock formations that they had just emerged from to the base of the Sigil Keep, with walls and other rocky ridges interrupting the otherwise flat expanse of cracked earth. Patrols of daedra roamed the area, disappearing and reappearing, flitting in and out of sight. A handful of gaping holes in large rocks marked entrance to what looked like caves, presumably breeding grounds or barracks of some kind. Ilend held up a hand, stopping his men, most of whom would have sagged, hands on knees, were it not for their discipline and training holding them upright. Oblivion was not kind, and the low crime rates meant that most of the Skingrad Guard's strenuous activities were in training. They simply were not prepared to run and fight in the Deadlands. Ilend did not blame them; unlike him, they didn't have the fury of their ravaged city fuelling them, spurring them on.

"Rest. Two minutes." Most gratefully trudged over a rock to lean on it, drinking out of their canteens while keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. Parwen clambered over a few rocks to get a better position to scout out the various obstacles and patrols in their paths, while Aerin slid down to sit with her back resting against the rock next to where Ilend was leaning, propping Trueshot up beside her.

"Think we'll even make it to the tower?" she asked, staring up at the mentioned column of obsidian with a mixture of regret and dread.

"Definitely," responded Ilend immediately. The Bosmer arched an eyebrow at his certainty. "This is excellent terrain for bows," he explained. "If you see em coming from far enough away, you could kill ten Dremora before they even reached you. They won't be expecting you to be able to penetrate their armour. Surprise is lethal. As is Trueshot."

Aerin nodded slowly. "Just make sure they don't surprise _us_," she muttered. She grabbed the rock above her and pulled herself to her feet, turning to look up at Parwen, who was crouched on a higher rock, peering out over the fractured landscape. "See anything?"

"Quite a few patrols," replied the archer, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the stinging dust that occasionally swirled across the terrain, borne by the hot winds. "I see another three full companies heading for another path to the Gate. How many soldiers do they have here?"

"As many as they need," grunted Ilend, pushing himself away from the rock. "Just be thankful that they'd only opened the one Gate. They might have opened more by now, though, and if that happens..." The Imperial shook his head. "I doubt Skingrad would hold out for much more than an hour. That's why we've got to move quickly here." He turned to the guardsmen. "Break's over. Same formation. Parwen, you scout ahead a bit." The Bosmer nodded as she nimbly jumped down from her vantage point.

Their pace was slower now that they had left the narrow confines and relative safety of the narrow path. Now, any enemy could leap out at them with little or no warning, and it was best not to blunder into an ambush at a double march. A few times, only Parwen's prior warning had allowed the squad to escape detection, crouching in the shadow of a rock as a patrol crossed the path ahead of them. The Sigil Keep drew closer with agonising slowness. Despite their fear and apprehension, Ilend could tell that some of his men were spoiling for a proper fight. No doubt they'd grow tired of fighting soon enough.

His predictions proved accurate when Parwen cursed and started sprinting back to the squad as a patrol of six Dremora and two scamps hurled themselves around a corner, drawing weapons and pausing only fractionally before charging at the invading mortals, bellowing war cries.

"Form a line!" commanded Ilend, sword flashing from his scabbard. Parwen dashed through their ranks and turned, adding her arrows to Aerin's. Both scamps fell quickly, and two Dremora fell to arrows from Trueshot before they closed the distance. "Use our numbers! Two for one!" Ilend himself darted forward and swung at the leading Dremora, ordering one of the Imperials off to deal with another. He could handle one Dremora by himself. Parwen and Aerin hang back, arrows nocked, keeping an eye out for any other daedra.

The leading Dremora, his head bare, snarled wordlessly at Ilend as he blocked the Imperial's swing with his shield, the power of the blow forcing him back a place. He barged forward, shield leading, and attempted a thrust, but Ilend smoothly sidestepped out of the way, locking shields and stabbing up at the Kynaz's stomach. His opponent backed away rapidly, but Ilend pursued, swinging down in an overhead cleave. Ducking, the Dremora found Ilend's heavy boot under his chin, throwing him backwards onto the hard earth, helpless as Ilend kicked his shield arm aside, leaving him open for the blade penetrating his armour, slicing through his lungs and punching through his heart.

Ilend withdrew his longsword with some effort, turning to find the battle already over; with two guards for each Dremora, it hadn't taken long for their discipline and training to destroy their attackers. The only wounded mortal, a Redguard with a shallow slash on his thigh, grimaced but ignored it as he emulated his comrades and wiped his sword on a cloth. "I'll be fine, save your magicka," he growled, waving away Ilend's offer of healing.

"They'll probably have heard that," observed Ilend, wiping his blade clean and sheathing it. "Come on, we've got to pick up the pace again. Aerin, you scout."

This cycle continued for some time; drawing closer to the Sigil Keep, they were attacked by smaller parties of daedra who stood no chance in the face of greater numbers, skilled archers and disciplined guardsmen. Any severe wounds were swiftly dealt with by Ilend, or by healing potion when his limited knowledge of Restoration failed him. Progress was frustratingly slow, but steady, and eventually they reached the foot of the enormous Sigil Keep, which towered threateningly over them.

"It's been easy so far," Ilend told the squad, ignoring their looks of disbelief as he led the way to the foot of the massive door. "Once we get in there, they'll know for sure we're here, and they'll throw everything they've got at us. We'll take casualties, for sure." He turned and faced them, wearing a grim expression. "Some of you will die. That is almost a certainty. I need you to ignore the fact that your comrades are dying all around you and fight on with everything you can muster. Skingrad's fate hangs in the balance. Can I count on you?" Faces just as grim as his stared back at him, slowly giving their assent. Determination rolled off all six guardsmen in waves. They might never have seen action before, but their city was in mortal danger. They would not falter.

"Good. We need to-" Ilend was cut off by Aerin calling a warning and frantically pointing at a pack of clannfear that had just appeared from behind a broken wall. Ilend only hesitated for a second. "Form a line!" he bellowed, drawing his sword and firmly planting his feet as three guardsman took positions either side of him. "Lock shields! Block their charge, then strike back!" The pack of fifteen clannfear were galloping now, growing closer by the second. Two bowstrings snapped, and there were two less. Another pair of arrows were loosed, and another two fell, tearing at the parched earth in their final agonies. The daedra were too fast, however, and covered the ground too quickly. Aerin got one more shot off, making a clannfear stumble with an arrow in its shoulder, before drawing her shortsword and placing a hand on Ilend's shoulder, ready to stab through the gap between him and the next man if an opportunity presented itself. Parwen walked slowly backwards, arrow still nocked, awaiting an opening.

The sheer force of the clannfear smashing into their shield wall forced each man back several paces, desperately fending off the piercing beaks and sharp claws of the daedra. Ilend smoothly slid his blade up past his shield in a movement much-practised on the drilling ground, neatly disembowelling the attacking clannfear battering at his shield. Another took its place, headbutting the battered steel shield with so much force the Ilend was forced back out of the line, staggering before Aerin pushed him back forward and slid her sword into the daedra's ribcage. As the Imperial swung clumsily to roughly half-decapitate it, he head a gurgled scream of agony as a clannfear got under a guardsman's shield and ripped its claws down his side, leaving three gaping slashes reaching from his lower ribs to his knee. Stumbling back and falling, the Imperial was only saved by Parwen's well-aimed arrow taking the clannfear in the neck.

Overwhelmed by the sheer force and numbers of the daedra, the line had broken into individual duels. Ilend and Aerin darted different ways, the Imperial moving to chop the tail off the clannfear attacking one of the Redguards, the daedra howling as its balance was destroyed, attempting to run before the embattled guardsman stepped forward and impaled it. Aerin ran up and slid her shortsword between the thick scales of a clannfear's head, penetrating its brain and killing it instantly, freeing up a guardsman to ram his shield into another, knocking it off balance and allowing him to pin it to the ground with his boot as both he and Aerin forced their blades deep into its chest. The frantic battle was dying down, the few remaining clannfear swarmed by guards, put down by multiple swords piercing their skin, leaving the bloodied, battered survivors to sag in relief.

One Imperial was dead, with his throat slashed open and his chest caved in, while four other guards had wounds, the most serious being the Imperial with his side laid open, grimacing in pain and making a tremendous effort not to make any involuntary noises as Ilend rushed to his side and fumbled for his potions, kneeling to ascertain the damage. He kept his face smooth, but inwardly he knew that the signs were not encouraging; a large pool of blood was spreading around the Imperial, slaking the thirst of the earth, and it was still pumping from somewhere on his leg, the sheer amount preventing exact location. The guard's face was draining of all colour as his hold on life gradually weakened. Ilend wrenched his most potent healing potion out from his belt and twisted the cork out, but was stopped by the guardsman's weak grasp on his arm.

"Save it... you might need it," he whispered, his voice weak as he stared up into Ilend's eyes. "Don't waste it on me. Get on with it." His eyes had a look of understanding in them; evidently, he'd seen the blood, he'd know that that much blood loss was fatal in Oblivion. Even if he survived, he'd be nothing but a burden to his comrades. Ilend slowly nodded.

"Anything I can do for you?" he asked, voice tight. No matter how many times Savlian Matius had prepared him for something like this, it wasn't easy.

The guardsman attempted a smile. On his pale face, it looked more like a grimace. "Just close the Gate," he sighed. "Don't waste any more time." Ilend dragged his eyes away and grunted, replacing the cork in the potion and straightening. The remainder of his squad, wounds healed, watched wordlessly.

"Mourn for the dead later," he told them, voice harsh. "For now, worry about yourselves. Come on." Clenching his fist around his sword hilt, he led the way up the stairs to the door, snarl firmly planted on his face. The still-raw memories of Kvatch were starting to burn fiercely.

The fact that the colossal doors leading to the bottom of the Sigil Keep slowly opened at a mere touch surprised Ilend, despite Gorgoth filling him in on the workings of daedric doors after Kvatch. Ruthlessly trampling his surprise down, he motioned for his squad to follow him as he walked steadily through the doors as they opened, slightly crouched, ready for anything that was thrown at him.

Advancing down the short hallway, Ilend grimaced as the spire of pulsating, liquid fire dominated his vision. Forcing his eyes away from it, he scanned the circular base of the tower which surrounded the spire, doors branching off in several directions. A robed Dremora noticed the intruders and bellowed a warning, swinging a staff off his back. Aerin's arrow took him in the throat before he could use any magicka, but numerous daedra were converging on their position. Ilend roared a battle cry and charged an approaching Flame Atronach, holding up his shield to block the gout of flame it sent at him, ignoring the smell of the flesh on his forearm starting to cook to thrust his sword up into its chest. He grimaced in pain as it dropped to the ground, fire extinguished. He'd suffered similar burns to his shield forearm at the Lake Arrius Caverns, and removing his gauntlet to find his skin still attached to it was never a pleasant experience.

He had no time to reflect on his scorched flesh and shield, however; a large scamp was charging towards him, ready to leap into attack. Ilend rushed forward, shield first, and battered the daedra to the ground, hearing it howl as the still-hot shield burnt its skin. The Imperial buried his blade in the scamp's chest, looking up just in time to see a daedroth that had been about to attack him stagger back, an arrow penetrating deep into its chest. Ilend moved forward and plunged his longsword into its stomach up to the hilt, bracing his leg against the crocodile-headed daedra's thick skin and wrenching his blade free.

Most daedra occupying the cavernous level were dead, though two of the guardsmen were nursing wounds. One was slowly rising to his feet, fumbling for a potion to treat a deep gash in his upper arm, while one of the Redguards bit his lip, drawing blood to stop himself crying out as his comrade pushed the remains of an arrow through his calf. Aerin and Parwen were grimacing as they counted their arrows; many had been damaged since entering Oblivion, leaving them with barely ten apiece. Looking over his blood-splattered, battered men, Ilend realised that most of them probably wouldn't survive Oblivion. But it was a price worth paying. To Ilend, just about any price was worth paying to stop Skingrad ending up like Kvatch.

"Move up," he ordered, gesturing towards a wide ramp curling upwards. "From now on, be even more alert than you were before. You can be attacked from anywhere." He led them upwards, sword still drawn, making no attempt to conceal his noise. The daedra knew they were there; no point in hiding. Memories of Kvatch had sparked a roaring inferno in Ilend's head, and he was damned if any daedra was going to stand between him and the Sigil Stone. The Dremora waiting for them halfway up the ramp stood no chance; Ilend's powerful, focused fireball blasted its leg off, leaving it helpless as one of the Imperial guardsmen knelt briefly to cut his throat.

The first room had numerous passages leading off to other parts of the tower, as well as a continuation of the ramp, but the daedra lying in wait demanded more attention. Ilend cursed as a daedroth slammed into his shield, almost crushing him beneath its bulk, but an arrow piercing its skull undoubtedly saved him from its teeth and claws. Aerin rushed to help him get out from underneath, but was intercepted by a clannfear, barely drawing her sword in time before it butted her to the ground, forcing her to frantically crawl backwards on her back, swiping at it to force the daedra to keep its distance while Ilend rose to his feet and disembowelled it. He staggered as an Imperial rolled into him, physically thrown across the room by a Dremora. Ilend recovered in time to block the Kynaz's strike with his shield, allowing the beleaguered Imperial to twist on the ground and sweep the Dremora's legs from under him, enabling both Imperials to stab him repeatedly until he stopped struggling.

Fighting had tailed off, and the room was clear, apart from an armless daedroth staggering around, swiftly put down by Parwen's arrow in its neck. An Imperial signalled for a potion, blood spurting from a savage-looking wound on his throat, and Aerin was wincing as her fingers probed her ribcage; the clannfear had definitely cracked at least two of her ribs. Most of the guards had already used up their small stock of potions, and Ilend's supply was dwindling. As the wounded Imperial managed to force the precious liquid down his throat – holding a hand to his wound to make sure it stayed in – Ilend winced as he realised that the entire squad only had three potions and his limited healing abilities to rely on.

Allowing no rest, Ilend relentlessly pushed on, knowing that every moment they delayed, the daedra would find more reinforcements to protect the Sigil Stone. Rooms were cleared with brutal efficiency as the increasingly ragged squad moved up the tower, dispatching daedra and collecting wounds. By the time Ilend judged that they were nearly at the Sigillum Sanguis, Parwen and two guardsmen were bleeding from minor wounds, having run out of healing potions. Ilend was saving his magicka only for the more serious wounds which would affect combat efficiency. Trudging up one final ramp, the Imperial pressed his hand to a door and led the way out onto a ledge hanging far above the ground below.

Archers and mages on the far side, blocking a ramp leading up towards the Sigillum Sanguis, instantly sent everything they had at the mortal invaders. One of the Redguards was too slow, and an arrow took him in the thigh. He fell, grunting in pain, head down, not seeing the fireball that slammed into him a moment later, vapourising most of his upper body. Aerin and Parwen returned fire, felling an archer and a mage, but were then forced to dive for cover again as two more fireballs made the ledge shake. Ilend was charging around the outside, desperately attempting to close the distance, but a bolt of lightning found his shield, lifting him and throwing him against the wall, his limbs twitching involuntarily as the Imperial almost bit his tongue in two trying to keep from crying out at the excruciating pain.

His eyes widened as one of the Imperials, more out of frustration than anything else, roared and threw his sword across the gap, narrowly missing the spire of magicka and embedding itself in the chest of a shocked Dremora mage, who stayed on his feet, swaying, for a second, before collapsing. Aerin's arrow took the other mage in the throat, and as he desperately attempted to tear it out while preserving his life, the remaining mortals charged across the ledge, blocking arrows with shields as they bore down on the remnants of the holding force. Aerin skidded to her knees beside Ilend, frantically shaking him.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," growled the Imperial, managing with some difficulty to haul himself to his feet, ignoring the blood dripping from his ears and nose, leaning heavily on the Bosmer. "I'll be fine... just hurts like nothing I've ever felt before." Fortunately, the steel of his shield had absorbed most of the lightning; without it, Ilend would doubtless have died in agony.

By the time Ilend had staggered to the base of the ramp, slowly finding his feet again, the three guardsmen and Parwen had finished off the archers, and were cleaning their blades, given a rare opportunity to rest. Ilend spent what little magicka he had left on circulating healing magic around his body, alleviating some of the pain, and he waved away an anxiously hovering Aerin to stare resolutely up the ramp towards the fleshy floor of the Sigillum Sanguis. "This is going to be the hardest you'll ever fight in your entire lives," he slowly told his men, voice rough. "If you're going to die, to die here is a glorious death. But dying will not save Skingrad." The Imperial slowly started up the ramp, his comrades joining him in his slow ascent. "If you want to see your city again, fight like heroes," he grated, hefting his dented shield.

The doors to the final stretch of their long, arduous journey opened at Ilend's touch, and they stomped through the Sigillum Sanguis with grim, determined looks set in bloodied faces. Three Dremora waited them, two with drawn swords, one hefting a massive warhammer. From the styling of their armour, the length of their horns, and their postures, they were clearly of high rank. Wasting no time, they moved to attack; what they lacked in numbers, they made up for in strength and ability, not to mention the fact that they were rested, whereas the mortals had been fighting for hours.

Ilend charged to meet the Dremora in the centre, who growled something unintelligible as Aerin's arrow was stopped by his shield. He parried the Imperials' blow with his identical blade and slammed his shield at Ilend, his sheer strength forcing the ex-guardsman back as they locked shields. Another swing was blocked and forced wide, and the Dremora leapt forward, attempting to gore Ilend with his horns. Stepping back, the Imperial kicked out at the Kynaz's knee, putting him off balance and allowing Parwen, who had been hovering nearby, to dart in and force her dagger between a small gap where the plates of his cuirass and greaves met, the blade embedding itself deep in his hip. The Dremora roared in pain and anger and smashed his shield side-on into the Bosmer's temple. As she crumpled to the ground, Ilend charged in and rammed his weapon into the base of the Dremora's skull with so much force that the tip of the longsword broke through the centre of the Kynaz's forehead.

Kicking his dead opponent off his blade, Ilend spared a glance for Parwen and grimaced. The Protector was dead, the side of her skull caved in, her one good eye staring blankly at the Sigil Stone far above her. Wasting no time to mourn, the Imperial quickly assessed the situation: The warhammer-wielding Dremora had been hamstrung by Aerin and was being relentlessly stabbed by both her and the Redguard as he frantically attempted to recover, whereas the other was easily holding his own against the two Imperials. Ilend stepped in to help, pushing the embattled Dremora onto the defensive, and seconds later he shuddered and collapsed as the Redguard forced his blade through the plate armour and into the base of his spine.

"Let's hope there's no more of that lot around," spat Ilend as he led the way up the ramps leading to the Sigil Stone. "We need to grab this sodding thing and get out of here. I'm fucking sick of Oblivion." One of the guardsmen agreed; the others merely concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as they followed Ilend up the last ramp. It was due to this exhaustion that the Xivilai lurking in the shadows went undetected for so long.

The massive grey-skinned daedra struck with brutal efficiency, battleaxe cleaving an Imperial guardsman's shield in two, severing his left forearm in the process, before wrenching the mighty weapon free and swinging it down in an overhead cleave, separating the Imperial's right arm and most of his torso from the rest of his body, blood spurting over the last few steps to the platform on which the Sigil Stone rested. Killed in sight of his objective, the dead Imperial slid slowly down the obsidian stairs.

Screaming a wild battle cry, the fallen man's Imperial comrade leapt to attack, shield and sword swinging, only for both weapons to be parried. The haft of the battleaxe slammed into his stomach with enough force to expel bile and stomach fluid, the guardsman powerless to resist as the Xivilai reversed the weapon and decapitated him. Hurling curses and profanities, Ilend and the last remaining guardsman launched themselves at the bloodied daedra, weapons chopping into his defence, halting him momentarily. Then the daedra stepped back, sweeping his long right leg across the ground in a move that toppled Ilend, and swung his axe across the Redguard in a slash that should have cut him in two, but instead merely left a light slash across his stomach as the guardsman stepped back. Planting a naked foot into his chest, the Xivilai sent the Redguard sliding across the floor with a dent in his breastplate, turning to find Ilend on his feet, a look of ice-cold fury in his normally bright blue eyes, the wet blood staining his face making his snarl all the more menacing.

"Come and get it, you bastard," he whispered.

The Xivilai's response was lost, the words whipped away in a howling wind that was tearing through the cavern. Blue and orange eyes whipped to the anchor, where Aerin was slowly backing away, hissing in pain and throwing the Sigil Stone across the Sigillum Sanguis as it burnt her palm. A triumphant shout left Ilend's lips as the Xivilai made one last attempt to reach for him before the world was consumed by flame.

For a long time, the only thing Ilend felt was pain. Pain, racking his body, a residue left by the lightning bolt that should have killed him. Pain, from the bruises on his left shoulder left by a Dremora's mace. Pain, from the flesh of his left forearm sticking to his gauntlet. Gradually, other senses returned to him. The stench of burning, thick in the air. Hard earth beneath him, a rock digging painfully into his back. A light breeze vainly plucking at his once fine black hair, now stained with blood and dirt. Hearing returned slowly; the screams of men, mer, and daedra dying, bellowed orders, spells booming, making the ground tremble.

Opening his eyes a fraction, Ilend's exhausted mind attempted to bring him up to date. Stars shone overhead, the brilliant white of Secunda glowing at the edge of his vision. It was night; he had spent hours in the gate. It felt like days. His eyes opened further, and an involuntary groan ripped from his lips as he raised his head slightly. Fighting continued in and around Skingrad, but as he slowly assessed the situation, a smile ghosted onto his cracked lips, disturbing dried blood and sending a small stream down his cheek, dripping onto his blackened chainmail.

The daedra were fighting a losing battle. Starved of reinforcements, what troops they had managed to get onto the wall were being pushed back, and while the East Gate had been shattered, the stubbornness of the guards and bottlenecks restricting their numbers meant that the daedra were being soundly beaten. Knowing that his task - for now - was done, Ilend was tempted to lie back and let the dark embrace of sleep take him, but his duty to those who had survived pulled him upwards.

Leaning with his back against the remnants of the Oblivion Gate, the sole survivor of the squad of guardsmen – Daron, the Redguard – could have been dead, with his torn surcoat, dented armour, and deathly expression. But as Ilend approached, it became clear that he had merely succumbed to exhaustion; his chest slowly rose and fell, and most of the blood encrusting every part of his body was not his own. His silver longsword, pitted and chipped, lay a few feet away from his right hand. Satisfied that Daron was alive, Ilend began looking around somewhat more urgently for Aerin. There appeared to be more daedric bodies around the Gate than when they'd entered.

He found the Bosmer crumpled on the ground a short distance from the gate, her face pale and drawn, several rips in her armour marking where enemy weapons had found their mark. As Ilend knelt beside her, raising her head with a hand behind neck, her eyes flickered open, slowly refocusing. "Is... is this Aetherius?" she asked unsteadily, looking weakly up at Ilend.

The Imperial snorted. "If it is, it's a pretty crap place," he told her, looking around. "Dead bodies everywhere, a shit-load of daedra, and nowhere near enough good-looking girls for my liking." He laughed, but it swiftly turned into a hacking cough. "Come on," he grunted. "No point in lying here."

He helped her to her feet, grabbing her arm to support her as they limped over to the remains of the Gate, leaning against it as they watched the battle unfold. "So, that's another city saved... all in a day's work," muttered Aerin, yawning. "I need ta sleep for a week. How does Gorgoth do it?"

Running a hand across his face, leaving it even dirtier than it had been before, Ilend shrugged. "He's the Hero of Kvatch," he sighed. "It's what he does."

"He's not the only hero in this country, ya know..." Aerin observed.

Ilend nodded. "There are hundreds of them," he agreed. "Hundreds, like you or me, or these guardsmen, doing their bit to save Tamriel. Hundreds of them, no matter what recognition they get. This is a time for heroes, Aerin." She slowly nodded, and they lapsed into silence as the daedra were pushed out of Skingrad and put to the sword. The price had been paid. Another Kvatch had been averted.

* * *

**A/N: Another chapter, another Oblivion Gate... while it might seem that certain viewpoints are getting neglected, rest assured that they'll be back soon, I just prefer to keep things... chronological. Anyhow, don't forget to review, you know how much I appreciate them, and it doesn't have to take you long to write one.**


	28. Looming Threats

**A/N: Again, nine reviews last chapter... not bad, but it could be better. In any case, right now I'm wondering how to actually sort out this bloody thing so it makes any kind of chronological sense... it might be a few chapters before the entire group is back together again, but I'll do my best in the meantime to move it forward.**

**Scytherian Poetry: Yeah, Gorgoth does seem to have gone off on his own for a bit. He just doesn't accept people as comrades very easily, making it somewhat logical for him to operate alone. He'll be back with the rest soon enough, though, hopefully. As for Ilend, he IS, essentially, just a soldier out for revenge. That in itself isn't the most involving of characters unless it's very well-written, so we'll have to appreciate Aerin a bit more, it seems...**

**Underpaid Critic: Yes, there ARE a lot of Gates. Means that there's a lot of oppurtunites for them to appear... read on ;) And I do like to make a habit of expanding little-seen NPCS.**

**As for the commas, I've always used them ever since I started writing, and it's so deep-rooted that I don't even know why. I guess it's because when I started writing, it was mainly descriptive essays for English, and my teacher encouraged the use of commas, so... I'll try to avoid confusion in future, but it'd be hard for me to kick.**

**As for my next fic... I might have mentioned a few times in my Author's Notes that it's a Dark Brotherhood fic, one with hopefully enough uniqueness to distinguish itself from the rest. I'll say no more here...**

**Random Reader: Well, I've never heard of that mod, but it does sound good and realistic. Rest assured that other parts of Tamriel are suffering from the Oblivion Crisis, some more than others. As for stealth, yes, they did use some stealth (hiding from a few patrols), which is wise, but take note that they're soldiers in terrain they're not used to. Hiding and stealth won't come naturally to them.**

**As for Gogron, he MIGHT make an appearance, though I hadn't considered one before... in fact, it could work. It'd be interesting to see him standing next to someone bigger than him for once, that's for sure.**

**Koboldlord: Yeah, the AI ingame isn't the best, but I always knew that an Oblivion Gate wouldn't be so bad if I had a company of good men at my back. It's a lot better with a squad. That's why there's a lot of main characters...**

**Arty Thrip: Happy birthday. Yarp, I made it in time... :)  
**

**That's it from me. For now. Don't forget to leave a review.**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-eight: Looming Threats**

Bravil. The city had apparently recovered from its near-destruction at the hands of Dagon's minions, and its inhabitants had reverted back to their normal lives, which apparently included a lot of thievery, dishonesty, crime, and drugs. Danger lurked in every alley, and gangs of scrawny-looking dregs from every race hang around on squalid street corners, ignoring the dangerous creaking of shacks that were so run-down that they looked ready to fall over at the lightest breath of wind. Grime and mud was everywhere, even the few paved streets coated with it, pounded down by myriads of feet. Even the 'quality' district of town, where the main shops, services and Guildhalls were, had an atmosphere that reeked of the lowest types of life. The denizens of Bravil went about their business with their heads down, unless they were actively looking for trouble. None of the latter group, however, saw fit to challenge the hulking, armoured Orc as he approached the Lonely Suitor Lodge.

One kick and the rickety, damp wooden door splintered and collapsed. Gorgoth ignored at as he stepped through the doorway, sweeping the lodge's patrons with a piercing gaze. His fellow Guildsmen had only been too happy to reveal the details of Maglir's supposed inactivity. After going to the Mage's Guild and completing the contract for an understandably incensed Aryarie – a simple assignment to collect imp galls – Gorgoth had made a beeline for Maglir's reported location with fire in his eyes.

The Bosmer recognised Gorgoth and immediately tried to shift further down the bar into the shadowed end of the common room, but Gorgoth's eyes darted to the movement and pinned Maglir in place as the Orc slowly approached. The light plate armour embossed with the Blackwood Company crest served as final proof of the Wood Elf's defection. Gorgoth closed the distance and stopped a mere foot from Maglir, glaring down at the hapless traitor.

"Maglir..." The word rolled off Gorgoth's tongue, laced with hatred and contempt. "If you had completed the contract, then gone to Oreyn to resign, then joined the Blackwood Company, I would not have had a problem with you." Most of the inn's patrons had by now either fled out into the street or moved as far away as possible from the Orc. "But not only have you effectively turned _traitor_-" Gorgoth spat the word "- but you brought shame and dishonour to the Guild by defaulting. I-" Movement caught Gorgoth's eye, and he shifted his gaze slightly to include the three Blackwood Company members that had just emerged from the shadows wearing threatening expressions.

"An Argonian, a Khajiit, an Orc and a Bosmer, all wearing the same uniform..." observed Gorgoth, folding his arms. "I have no argument with you three, but by sundown, this traitor will have got what he deserves: to be dumped in a ditch, his body left for the wolves." Maglir whimpered, then made a visible effort to stiffen his back, moving to stand in front of his new comrades.

"To take him, you have to take all four of us," rasped the Argonian, his hand resting purposefully on the hilt of his longsword.

Gorgoth, slowly clenching his fists, noted a creaking floorboard behind him. He spun, his open palm slamming into the chest of the Altmer, dressed in the garb of a commoner, who was trying to slide a dagger into his ribs. Ignoring the indignant shouting of the Orcish innkeeper – apparently, the Altmer was his cook – Gorgoth stomped over and grabbed the front of her shirt, lifting her feet off the ground so they saw eye to eye. With two of her ribs almost definitely broken, the fragile Altmer still retained enough courage to spit in his face. "You cannot stop the Lord Da-" Gorgoth threw her to the floor with enough force to shatter even more of her ribs, then drew his booted foot back and kicked her in the temple, several patrons of the inn looking queasy at the squelching sound that echoed off the walls.

"Your cook was a Mythic Dawn agent," Gorgoth told the innkeeper, looking around for the Blackwood Company members. They had vanished. Cursing in his native language, the Orc rushed out of the Lodge, leaving the innkeeper with his mouth gaping.

Only his reflexes, honed over the decades by incessant, brutal training regimes, saved Gorgoth from having his skull caved in by the warhammer as the Blackwood Company Orc swung it with all his strength. Gorgoth straightened and kicked the Orc's legs from under him, following him down and slamming his elbow into his opponent's throat. As his comrade had his windpipe caved in, the Khajiit hissed in anger and leapt at Gorgoth, only to find himself lying dazed on the ground several feet away, struggling for breath, as the Orc met his leap with a two-fisted hammer blow to his chest. Blood King was singing, crying out to Gorgoth to take blood, to use his old weapon again, but he ignored it. There would be little honour in this slaughter. Gorgoth would only slake his weapon's thirst in a battle worthy of his respect.

Stepping into battle calmly, the Argonian ignored the predicament of his comrade and moved forward, thrusting at Gorgoth with speed. Sidestepping, the Orc felt the blade scrape along his armour as he lunged forward, his fist connecting with the end of the Argonian's snout, sending him staggering back, attempting to stay on his feet. Gorgoth stepped forward again and delivered a roundhouse kick to the lizard's abdomen, depositing him several feet away, blood and bile spraying from his mouth as his stomach rebelled. The Orc looked around for Maglir, and spotted him running for his life, screaming for the guards.

Ignoring a guardsman's shouted instruction for both of them to stop, Gorgoth sent fortification magic flowing through his limbs and took off at a pace far faster than would normally be possible for an Orc weighed down by thick plate armour. Sprinting past a startled guard, one of several called to the scene by the commotion, Gorgoth caught up with Maglir within seconds, the Bosmer clearly struggling under the weight of his new armour, and grabbed his neck with one hand, increasing his pace until he reached the city wall. The Orc sent strong Alteration magic coursing through his legs and the air in front of him and jumped straight over the city wall, leaving the pursuing guards gaping in wonder as the Orc made good his escape, captive in tow.

Ten minutes later, having mounted Vorguz and galloped until they were a safe distance from the city, Gorgoth dismounted and dragged Maglir, now naked and bound, into a forest clearing just out of earshot of the road. Throwing the terrified Bosmer to the ground, Gorgoth took the time to tie Vorguz securely to a tree before turning back to him, fixing him with a withering glare. "Do you know why you're about to die in agony?" he asked, voice cold and emotionless.

Maglir immediately started to ramble about his wife and children until Gorgoth backhanded him, knocking out a few teeth. "Answer the question," he snarled.

With tears pouring down his face, Maglir nodded. "You think I betrayed the Guild and brought dishonour upon it." His voice was a shrill, high-pitched whine, and a foul stench started to rise from him as his bowels voided themselves.

"I _thought_?" Gorgoth shook his head. "Maglir, I _know_. You are a worthless waste of life. This is my duty, nothing more." His fists began to glow, one dull red, the other bright blue. "I always have found it amazing how much pain can be inflicted for so long, and so safely, with magicka," muttered the Orc, talking half to himself. "Some prefer physical, some prefer magical. I use both where the situation suits them..." He returned his gaze to Maglir, who upon looking into those eyes, could do nothing but whimper in fear. "Pray to whatever gods you know, Wood Elf, but I doubt they will help you now."

Maglir began to scream.

* * *

The West Barracks of the Skingrad Guard was lively. It had been two days since the Oblivion Gate had been closed but the euphoria had not yet fully worn off. Daron had been pestered incessantly to talk about Oblivion after being debriefed by Dion and Danus Artellian. The normally reserved Redguard had no doubt found himself talking more in one night – fuelled by constant rounds of beer paid for by his comrades – than he had done for the last year. Ilend himself had been physically dragged from the Guildhall one night and taken down to the nearest pub, where he'd had so many beers pushed into his hand that he'd eventually passed out and had to be carried back to the Guildhall on the shoulders of eight guardsmen, much to the amusement of the entire Guild, which had survived virtually unscathed, Parwen and one of the Associates being the only casualties. Ah-Malz had apparently been devastating on the walls, his claymore being well-suited for the purpose.

Dion's voice brought Ilend back to the present. They were sitting in a secluded corner of the West Barracks, the Guard Captain's crested helmet resting on the table before him. "So, you'd have maybe six months, a year maximum, before I bump you straight up to Guard Sergeant. You belong in uniform, Ilend. Think about it."

Ilend rubbed his chin, his gauntlet scratching his stubble. He'd had the armour cleaned and repaired until it was in both a presentable and working condition, but it would be a while to get the smell of blood out of it. Skingrad's armourers and healers had been overworked; over forty guards had died, with many more sporting wounds of various severity. "Your offer is tempting, Dion," Ilend told the Imperial, speaking truthfully. There were times when he missed the pride that had come with being part of the Guard. "But it'd be too restricting. It might not look like it, but..." his voice trailed off.

Dion turned and fixed the Guildsman with a piercing stare. This close, Ilend could see the thin lines pricking at the corner of the tanned Imperial's eyes and mouth. Sellus Dion had been captain of the Skingrad Town Guard for over ten years, and his rivalry with the captain of the Skingrad Castle Guard, Danus Artellian, had lasted for eight of them. Dion, the better officer, with even better family connections, had got the more important position and Artellian had never forgiven him. "You're lusting for revenge. It burns if it goes thirsty for too long," observed the captain after a few seconds.

Ilend sighed and nodded. "When the time comes, I have to be at the heart of this war, it has to be my blade doing some of the most damage to Dagon," he explained. "I simply don't have the freedom to do that in the Skingrad Guard." He paused. "Besides, Ah-Malz promoted me to Protector. I have a future in the Guild. One that gives me more freedom." The Argonian had told him that he might not have been on official Guild business when he'd closed the Gate, but he was damned if any such act of courage was going to go unacknowledged by the Guild.

The captain nodded sagely. "I get where you're coming from, Ilend," he sighed. "Just remember that this offer remains open." He stood, donning his helmet, and Ilend swiftly rose to his feet. "I'm off to patrol the walls. I'll trust the dozy buggers to remain alert after that debacle, but you can never be too sure..." the Imperial nodded to Ilend then walked out of the barracks. Ilend left soon after him, as a few guards were looking in his direction with interest. He didn't want to make it two hung over mornings in a row.

Walking along the dark streets of Skingrad – the sun had long since set – Ilend kept one hand on the hilt of his sword. According to reports, the daedra had been killed, each and every single one of them, mostly cut down in the killing ground just through the gates where they had been assaulted on three sides by ranks of spearmen, with the second rank able to fight along with the first due to the reach of their deceptively simple weapons. However, until an entire week had elapsed, Ilend wasn't about to let his guard down; some few might have slipped into the city and hid, unnoticed by the residents, most of whom had been cowering in the chapel. Fortunately, he had been able to remain largely anonymous in the aftermath, and the citizens of Skingrad didn't know exactly who had closed the gate. Neither he, Aerin, nor Daron wanted hero-worship.

A shadow moved in a dark alley, and Ilend had his sword half-drawn before he recognised Aerin. He grunted and rammed the daedric longsword back into its scabbard. Throughout the rigours of combat, it hadn't even been badly chipped; the daedra certainly made good swords with good steel.

"Bit jumpy, ain't ya?" asked Aerin as she fell in beside him.

Ilend snorted. "You seem to forget that I lost my home to those bloody daedra. I think I'm entitled to see them in every shadow."

"Good point." The archer's hand unconsciously rose to her back to run her hand over the feathers of recently-purchased arrows. Ilend smirked and rolled his eyes.

"So, has Ah-Malz succeeded into press-ganging you into the Guild yet?" asked Ilend. The Argonian Warder had been becoming increasingly vehement about securing the archer's services, especially as there was a gap to fill given that Parwen's body was lying in Oblivion. Some of the older inhabitants of the Skingrad branch had been downcast about losing their resident marksmer, but neither Ilend nor Aerin had been able to get to know her that well in their brief acquaintance. Thus, they had given their mourning comrades time and space, but most of their attention had been on recovering from their assault on Oblivion.

Aerin shook her head, ponytail swinging. "Nah. He threatened ta kick me off Guild property and send me ta sleep in the street if I didn't join, but then I pointed out that you could put whatever ya want in your bed, and that includes me."

Ilend barked a laugh and raised an eyebrow. "Would you even fit?" he muttered, only half joking. The Guild's beds were decidedly narrow. When an Orc had passed through a few years back, he'd complained of barely being able to turn over without falling out.

Aerin laughed and elbowed him in the ribs as they approached the entrance to the Guildhall. "Even if I didn't, I'm sure I could slip in with Fadus. He wouldn't mind, I'm sure."

"Wouldn't mind what?" asked Fadus, emerging from the Guild just as Ilend's hand rose to open the doors.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Ilend told him as they slipped past him into the hallway, leaving the bulky Imperial scratching his bandaged head in confusion. He'd refused to allow the Mage's Guild to heal the slash that had left a three-inch cut just in front of his left ear, claiming that it 'looked good'.

"So, has our knight in not-so-shiny armour decided to stay with the Guild?" asked Ah-Malz, his feet up on the table. Fons Llendo was sitting across from him, sharpening his newly-acquired daedric scimitar, taken as a trophy from a Dremora that the Dunmer had killed. Maybe Ilend had started a trend.

"I'm staying, Ah-Malz, if only because your food is better," laughed the Protector, flopping down on a much-mistreated seat and leaning back as he swung his feet up to rest on the table. "I don't suppose there's any contracts floating about?"

"Actually, I just sent Fadus off on one," rasped Ah-Malz, holding a throwing knife up to the light of a lamp and examining it critically. "One of the mages at the Guild wants protection while she forages around the remains of that Gate for alchemical supplies. Not the most exciting of jobs, but it's a contract."

Ilend was about to respond when there was a heavy thumping at the door. All eyes turned to Aerin, who was seated closest to the entrance. She sighed, rolled her eyes, and got up, walking over to the double doors and wrenching them open.

A middle-aged, official-looking Orc stepped through the doorway, in the uniform of a direct employee at the castle of Count Hassildor. Clearly not destined for combat, the Orc was probably the softest example of the race Aerin had ever seen, slight of build and barely more than a foot taller than her. The prominent canines even looked out of place on his face. "I have a message to deliver to Ilend Vonius and Aerin," he rumbled, his voice still as deep as most Orcs, looking around the hall as though he'd never been there before.

"I'm Aerin," replied the named Bosmer, glancing to her left as Ilend, having heard his name, strolled out into the hall. "And that's Ilend."

The Orc nodded. "Count Hassildor requires your presence at the Castle immediately. He does not like to be kept waiting." Turning on his heel, he walked smartly out of the doorway, leaving the doors open.

Ilend scratched his chin. "I guessed this might happen," he grunted. "How do I look?" he asked Aerin.

Aerin turned and gave him a searching glance, looking him up and down, folding her arms. "Unwashed, unshaven, smelly, and in dire need of a haircut," she told him. Ilend cocked an eyebrow and took a lock of his black hair in his hand. It was still short enough by his standards, barely brushing the tops of his shoulders. "I'm joking, ya big lummox," snorted Aerin. "Ya look like a soldier, which I'm sure is what ya want."

Ilend nodded. "Damn right," he growled. "What the Count sees is what he gets. Come on, you heard the Orc, he doesn't like to be kept waiting." Not waiting for a response, the Imperial left the Guildhall without looking back.

Walking briskly through the city and across the long bridge separating the castle from the rest of Skingrad took the better part of half an hour. Both had guessed exactly what they had been called to the Count for – that much was obvious – but, after much discussion, they were still clueless as to what he actually wanted by the time they reached the gates. Apparently, even an audience in person with the reclusive ruler of Skingrad was a great honour.

The guards let them in as soon as they identified themselves, and after crossing the courtyard, they found themselves in what was probably the 'waiting room' in which anyone who wanted to see the Count waited for acceptance or rejection. Normally rejection. Hal-Liurz, the Count's Argonian steward, immediately went off to fetch him, leaving Ilend and Aerin to wait somewhat uncomfortably under the eyes of various Castle Guardsmen, having nothing to do except cast their gaze over the simple stonework or the walls, the only decoration being banners bearing the crest and colours of Skingrad. Predictably, Daron was also there; the Redguard was leaning against a wall, helmet tucked under his arm, looking at nothing in particular.

After a few minutes, Hal-Liurz descended halfway down the stone stairs and beckoned for the three to follow her. A short walk through a twisting corridor deposited them in a luxurious room, which had thick carpets, various murals decorating the walls, and ornately designed lamps providing light in the absence of windows. The only chair was a finely-carved, stiff-backed affair made of darkened wood. Standing in front of it was the only other inhabitant of the room after Hal-Liurz closed the door and took up position beside it.

Ilend and Daron immediately snapped into salutes, fists thumping against their chainmail. Aerin hastily copied them, despite the gesture looking slightly ridiculous, given her thoroughly non-military attire. Count Janus Hassildor waved for them to be at ease before stepping forward, looking each one in the face in turn. Both Ilend and Aerin were struck by his appearance; his immaculate, expensive clothing could have been that of any other noble, but the Count himself looked different. By most accounts, he was well over a hundred years old, but that was to be expected of a powerful mage; many of the most powerful had been living for millennia. However, the man standing before them was heavily wrinkled, his neatly combed-back hair more grey than brown, and his face was gaunt and sunken in appearance. His eyes, a dark grey, were deep-set and alive with an otherworldly light.

"My captains tell me that you are the only survivors of the group that went in to close the Oblivion Gate," observed the Count, his voice rich and low, in contrast to his withered appearance. "Without you three, this city would probably be ashes by now."

The three held their silence as the Count paused, his gaze taking in all of them, stripping them down and looking into their very souls. "Bravery was prevalent that day," continued Hassildor. "It could be argued that you, Daron, were only doing your duty, but going into Oblivion, spitting in the face of a Daedric Lord, goes beyond the call of duty." Another pause. "Vonius, Aerin, you did not even have to stay in the city. You could have fled, you and the comrade of yours who did not make it."

Ilend grunted. "This is my home now, sir," he intoned. "And I still have a sense of duty from my days as a Kvatch Guardsmen. Running for me was unthinkable."

Hassildor nodded slightly, turning to Aerin. "And you?" he asked. "You are not even in the Fighter's Guild, not following the orders of a superior. You are a civilian, unattached to Skingrad. Why stay and fight?"

Aerin swallowed, thinking before answering, clearly uneasy in the unfamiliar setting. "I was at Kvatch, sir," she told the Count. "I saw what the daedra did there. I... I don't think any man or mer with any decency could abandon anyone to that fate if they could do something about it."

Hassildor walked a few steps away from them, digesting the information. "Yet you all stayed and fought," he said, turning to face them again. "In this continuing crisis, it is good to know that the Empire can count on soldiers such as you." The Count paused for a moment, then continued. "I will not elevate one hero above all others. The entire Skingrad Guard, every man or mer who fought, are heroes, and I will not single any man out, but..." He fixed them with a piercing gaze. "You three deserve something, at least. Ask for something, within reason, and I will do my best to grant it."

Daron's response was instant. "I ask for nothing, sir, just my continuing service in Skingrad's Guard," he told his Count, staring straight ahead.

Hassildor chuckled. "A soldier's response," he muttered. "That is an easy request to grant. We need good, strong men in the Guard in this dark time. Stand ready for whatever happens, Guardsman Daron." The Redguard gave a short nod. "And what about you two?" asked Hassildor, turning towards Ilend and Aerin.

Ilend was still frowning, trying to work out what to ask for, and Aerin's face was blank with shock, so the silence stretched out awkwardly for a few seconds before Ilend's eyes refocused and he spoke: "I would be honoured if you gave me a shield of your city guard," he asked, speaking slowly. Hassildor's eyebrows twitched, and Ilend hurriedly explained. "My old shield-" he tapped the scorched, heavily pitted shield hanging from his back "- has seen better days. Given that I can now call this city my home, I would be grateful if you could give me a standard steel shield painted with the Skingrad colours, as used by the Guard. I swear not to bring dishonour upon it."

The Count waited a long moment before nodding. "I'll have one taken from the armoury," he replied. "It will be delivered to the Guildhall by tomorrow night." He turned to Aerin. "And you?"

Aerin thought for another long moment, her tongue idly running over her teeth, before speaking. "Arrows," she croaked, pausing to swallow before continuing. "The ones I'm using at the moment are low-quality, they bend easily. I know you've got solid arrows in your armoury... armour-piercers aren't the priority, I want durability." She cleared her throat. "Sir." she added hastily.

"And how many would you need?" asked Hassildor.

"Sixty would do. More than enough ta fill two quivers. Sir."

The Count nodded. "I'll see to it that some are earmarked," he told her. He took two steps back, his gaze including them all. "These are dark times," he whispered, forcing them to strain to catch his words. "I hope Cyrodiil has more like you. This is our hour of need." Hassildor sighed, abruptly seeming even older. "You are dismissed," he told them, standing back impassively with his hands folded behind his back as Hal-Liurz shepherded them out.

Aerin was the first to speak as they slowly descended the stairs to the entrance hall. "Damn, I should have asked for a house or something!" she exclaimed, punching her fist into her palm.

"Why didn't you?" asked Ilend stonily.

"Ah... didn't think of that. And... it might have been a tad much, ya know?"

Daron snorted. "Merely meeting the count is an honour; enough for me," he claimed, donning his helmet, the cheek guards lending him an air of anonymity.

"Ya would say that. Typical guardsman." Aerin shook her head, ignoring Ilend's frown as they left the stairs. "Still, at least I got some arrows out of it."

"You got more than that, Aerin," growled Ilend. "By not singling out any one of us as the gate-closers, he preserved us from the sort of hero-worship that Gorgoth is probably getting. I'm sure you wouldn't want everyone in Skingrad fawning over you."

Aerin missed a step, brow wrinkling as she digested his words. "Right..." she said slowly. "That's... good."

Ilend snorted. "Bloody right it is," he muttered, speeding up momentarily to catch up to Daron as they headed towards the exit. "I take it you've been mobbed with beers?" he asked the Redguard.

Daron spared him a sideways glance. "The lads knew not to get me drunk when I was on duty tomorrow," he replied, removing his helmet to scratch at an itch on his completely shaven head. This close, Ilend could tell that he'd seen combat long before closing the Gate; no doubt his promotion to Guard Sergeant was imminent even without his exploits, years of service evident by the ridges worn into his skull by his helmet over the years.

"How long have you been in the Guard?"

"Seven years."

Ilend nodded, inwardly congratulating himself over his correct guess. Daron's voice intruded. "Were you at Kvatch?"

"Yes. I was a Watch Sergeant at the time. I lived every single minute of that battle." Ilend sighed. "Couldn't let it happen here."

Daron grunted. "Why did you leave the Guard? Your city needed you."

Sighing again, Ilend stopped and turned to regard the Redguard with one hand resting on the doors to the castle courtyard. "My city did not need a man consumed with his desire for revenge, Daron. They have other guards. They have help from your city and others. One man makes no difference."

Daron's face was unreadable as he studied Ilend for a moment, before silently walking out through the doors into the night. Aerin walked up and stared out after him. "He could have got a promotion, ya know," she muttered.

"Damn it, Aerin, stop being so fucking shallow!" exploded Ilend, ripping open the other door and stomping out across the courtyard. The guards at the entrance to the castle wisely kept their faces smooth as the Imperial crossed the bridge back to the city, Aerin somewhat hesitantly falling in beside him.

They were almost back to the city when Aerin finally broke the strained silence. "All right, Ilend, what did I do wrong?" she asked stopping and turning him with a hand on his elbow.

"You really don't _know_?" snapped Ilend, glaring down at her. He growled in exasperation as she shook her head. "Aerin, for a Skingrad City Guard like Daron, merely meeting a count as reclusive as Hassildor might well be the high point of his career. He'll get promoted soon for sure, but he'll always remember that. And as for us..." the Imperial sighed and walked over to the edge of the bridge, leaning his hands on the stone walls. "Not only did the Count do the right thing, he did us a favour. Do you _want_ people to worship the ground you walk on?"

Aerin, hands clasped behind her back, was studying her boots intently. "No," she mumbled, her voice small.

"Exactly. You're, what, not even twenty yet? You've probably got near enough two centuries ahead of you if you don't die in battle. Would you want to carry the burden that goes with being a hero, the Hero of Skingrad, for the rest of those years?"

Aerin looked up, meeting his flat gaze. "No," she whispered.

Ilend nodded, then looked up at the stars shining overhead in the complete absence of any cloud. "Yes... being a hero really isn't all fun and games," he continued. "Few can really take up that heavy mantle with any confidence. A true hero has obligations, responsibilities... people naturally expect more of him, for him to do great things, to do the impossible, to be there when no-one else is, to be their saviour..." The Imperial shook his head in disgust. "I tried playing the hero once, Aerin, when I was a fresh-faced young recruit. Luckily, one of the older hands talked some sense into me before I'd got in too deep. I took that advice to heart. Three years later I was a Watch Sergeant."

"I'd never thought about heroes that way before," replied Aerin slowly, leaning on the wall beside him, looking down into the valley below them, brow wrinkled in deep thought. "What about Gorgoth? He doesn't seem to give a damn about obligations."

"Gorgoth? Gorgoth is something else entirely. I don't pretend to be able to understand him." Ilend sighed and shook his head. "Maybe I was too hard on you. You were a drifter in your youth, with no real way of instilling something like civic pride." Ilend shot her a sidelong glance. "I grew up here, Aerin. This is my city. I was proud to serve Kvatch, but I'll be just as proud to bear the crest of Skingrad on my shield. That, for me, is far better than being a hero. Reward?" The Imperial shook his head. "The Count rewarded us by not singling us out, Aerin. Do you understand that?"

She nodded. "I do now, but... if he knew what he was preserving us from, why did the Count offer us rewards?"

"He's been in the politics business a long time, Aerin. You never say what you really mean in politics. And, at the most basic level..." He smiled. "Think of it as a reward for a good job done well." Ilend turned and clapped a hand to her shoulder, smirking as she instinctively flinched. "And it _was_ done well," he claimed. "Without you, I doubt we'd have survived. Trueshot and its wielder were invaluable."

Aerin grimaced. "Don't be a politician, Ilend," she grunted. "Say what you mean: _Trueshot_ was invaluable. It wouldn't make a difference who wielded it, as long as they could at least shoot straight..."

Ilend scoffed and grabbed her by both shoulders, giving her a gentle shake. "Don't you ever go doubting yourself, Aerin," he told her, a spark igniting in his eyes. "Yes, Trueshot might have been important, but you've clearly been listening at least half the time when I get you sparring. No, you might not be perfect; yes, Trueshot could be wielded by another, but the fact is, it _wasn't_. _You_ were there in Oblivion, _you_ survived, _you_ fought like an elf possessed at times. Damn it, Aerin, it might have been a team effort, but even so, I might not be here if it wasn't for you. _Skingrad_ might not be here."

Aerin stared up at him for a few seconds, then a grin crept across her features. "Hey... ya weren't too shabby yourself, ya know? Then again, neither was the rest of the Guard."

"Exactly." Ilend smiled. "Dagon came, looking to take this city, to turn it into a smouldering ruin. He found us ready and willing to spit in his eye. We fought and we won. That, to a soldier, is victory." He hesitated, then pulled her into a strong hug, his grip tight. "You might deny it, but I know you're a soldier now," he told her, idly stroking her hair. "This is what victory feels like. Savour it while you still can."

* * *

A snowstorm was swirling around Cloud Ruler Temple. Heavy white flakes pounded the battlements, where the Blades unlucky enough to be stationed on guard duty were shivering in the watch towers or crowding as close to the braziers as duty allowed, the biting wind cutting through their plate armour better than the finest steel ever could. The dark clouds overhead were rolling south, shedding their load as they went. Most of the Blades had seen several such winters at the Temple, but the groaning and cursing at the weather never changed.

"How soon will this bloody storm blow over, d'you reckon?" Baurus asked Captain Steffan as the two Blades stood shivering around a brazier along with four of their comrades. Jauffre had finally decreed that Martin didn't have to have two dedicated bodyguards, and a rotating system had been set up, with Glenroy and Baurus removed from the luxurious room they'd commandeered. Both had seen it coming for a while.

"Not any time soon, by the looks of it," growled Steffan, stamping his feet to keep the blood circulating. The grizzled Imperial had been commander of the Temple for twenty years, and he hadn't been wrong about the local weather for the last seven. "Nothing wrong with a light sprinkling, anyhow," he muttered.

Baurus grimaced. "Easy for you to say, Imperial," he grunted.

Steffan snorted. "Course, I should have remembered. You beach boys don't function in the cold." The Captain rubbed his chin in an unsuccessful attempt to hide his growing smirk. Winter was also an excuse for long-established ribbing to open up between the Imperials, Bretons and Redguards over the latter's general aversion to extreme cold. The few Nords normally took the opportunity to sit back with infuriating smug smiles.

Baurus was about to reply when a shout from the fortress's east wall demanded their attention. "Captain! I think I can see an Oblivion Gate!"

The response was immediate; most of the Blades who had been crowded around the braziers immediately sprinted over to where Jena was pointing to the east: A dark red glow was spreading over the horizon like a stain, the Gate on the ground hidden by the forest and the snowstorm. Several Blades cursed. Steffan pursed his lips. "That can't be more than ten miles away," he snarled, slamming his gauntleted fist down onto the wall. "Someone get the Grandmaster!" he roared.

By the time Jauffre had arrived, Steffan had sent most of the Blades back to their duties. Jauffre took one look at the dark glow and grunted as though he'd been punched in the stomach. "They could have an army beating at the walls within hours," he muttered after thinking rapidly. "We're going to have to close that." The aged Breton sighed and turned to Baurus. "Tell Renault to meet me in the Great Hall. We need to be quick and decisive. Hurry." His quiet, forceful words had more effect than a barked command ever would, and Baurus immediately sprinted off to find her, ignoring his katana banging against his legs. Jauffre motioned for Steffan to follow him as he hurried off in the direction of the Great Hall.

"What do you have in mind?" asked Steffan as Jauffre made his way over to the fireplace and stared into the flickering flames.

"Glenroy reported that he and Selene closed the Gate outside Bravil with difficulty. We have to assume the Daedra have learnt from their mistakes. We will have to send more this time."

"A squad?" Steffan slowly removed his helmet and ran a hand through his greying hair. "We might just be sending them into a meat grinder. This place can be defended by a skeleton garrison against armies, Jauffre, you know that. Send half the Blades we have available."

Jauffre sighed. "We barely have a skeleton garrison as it is," he muttered. "We've been in decline, Captain. Uriel's reign always seemed stable and safe. We were allowed to relax. Now look at us; barely a hundred of us when we are needed most."

Steffan was careful to keep his face smooth; he knew all to well that in the fifty years that under Jauffre's leadership, barely any beast races or elves had been admitted to the Blades, despite several showing excellent qualities. The only exception was in the spying branch, where the ability to blend in meant certain races were essential. However, it never had been Steffan's job to question his leader's motives. "We have brave hearts and good sword arms," he said slowly. "And we have-" he cut himself off abruptly, as the mere mention of Gorgoth's name in his presence was enough to irk Jauffre these days.

Judging by Jauffre's scowl, the Breton knew exactly who Steffan had been about to refer to. "Well, the fact is, he isn't here," he growled. Renault chose that moment to hurry in, accompanied by Martin, who was shadowed by both Baurus and Roliand.

"How far is it?" asked Martin, immediately striding over, his voice slightly harsher than usual. Oblivion Gates put him on edge more than most things did; understandable, given his ordeal in Kvatch.

"About ten miles, give or take a few," responded Steffan.

"It needs to be closed, and closed immediately," cut in Jauffre. "Renault, get a squad of eight together and be ready to leave within minutes. Take Glenroy and Selene; they've closed Gates before, and you'll need Selene's magic. For the rest, I trust your judgement." The Breton captain saluted smartly and turned on her heel, motioning for Baurus to follow her as she donned her helmet.

Martin sighed. "This one is aimed at us, isn't it?" he asked.

"Undoubtedly," confirmed Jauffre. "They haven't assaulted Bruma yet – though they will – so it would make sense for them to try and circumvent it first."

"How long do we have if her squad fails?"

Jauffre turned and fixed Martin with a gaze full of steel and conviction. "They won't fail," he claimed, voice hard.

* * *

South of the Panther River, a some way east of the Yellow road, deep within the Blackwood, two Argonians were leaning against a tree, heads drooping with the boredom normally associated with sentry duty. Their spears leaned against their shoulders, ready for use, and their light scale armour sometimes glimmered whenever the weak sun managed to penetrate both the clouds above and the thick canopy of the wet forest. The foliage around the Argonians was dense, and alive with the sounds of nature; birds calling, insects tapping out their usual rhythms, water from last night's rainfall dropping from the leaves of the thick-trunked trees.

Sensing his comrade's eyes slowly sliding shut, one of the sentries irritably elbowed him in the ribs. "Stay awake," he rasped. "You know what the boss is like when he catches you sleeping on duty."

"He won't catch me," snorted the other, green eyes focusing and refocusing as he attempted to clear the fog of near-sleep from his head. "Since when has he ever come this far out? Besides, you'd cover for me."

"Don't be so sure," growled his comrade, returning to gaze through the dense growth. "No-one might have been here for the last twenty years, but you can't afford to-" He was cut off by the throwing axe embedding itself deeply in his chest, chopping through his ribcage and slicing his heart in two. The Argonian slumped down the tree, leaving a trail of blood behind him, red-tinted frothy saliva dribbling from his open mouth.

Leaping forward, swinging his spear from his shoulder, the other Argonian had no time to register the sound of footfalls behind him before an ebony broadsword buried itself in his lower back, punching through his spine and thrusting out through his stomach. Twisting the blade to loosen it, Gnaeus Magnus pulled it free with practised ease, stepping back to avoid the spray of blood, letting the dying Argonian slump to the damp forest floor.

"A blind half-wit would have kept better watch than those two idiots," he snorted, disgust evident in his lined face as Lurog emerged from behind a tree and walked over to reclaim his throwing axe. "Then again, they were better than the last three pairs," continued the Imperial, voice dripping with scorn as he cleaned his blade on a large leaf pulled free from the tree above him.

"Lapses of this magnitude would be rewarded by twenty lashes in the Orcish army," rumbled Lurog, wiping his axe head clean before returning it to a loop on his belt, which it shared with three others, several potions and his long, heavy mace.

"Discipline? In an army of greenskins?" Gnaeus's harsh laughter clearly indicated what he thought of that concept. Lurog sighed and rolled his eyes skyward. If Gorgoth hadn't asked this favour of him, he'd have strangled the old Imperial several days ago. "Don't make me laugh. Now, make yourself useful for once and hide the bodies." Lurog grunted his assent and bent over to pick up one of the Argonian corpses, effortlessly slinging it over his shoulder, ignoring the flecks of blood staining his thick chainmail.

"Keep your voice down, old man," he growled, dumping the dead sentry in a bush and returning for the other one. "We must be getting close to their main camp. You said so yourself."

"Another three miles yet, by my reckoning," replied Gnaeus, sheathing his sword. "Hurry up with that. I want to take notes while we've still got daylight."

Lurog dumped the second body in the same bush and wrenched the branches around until the thick leaves of the bush hid most of the body parts. The dark green of the Argonian's scales helped by blending in with the natural environment. Throwing their spears in beside them, the Orc turned to find Gnaeus waiting impatiently, immediately turning and walking off into the forest without a backwards glance. Lurog shook his head in wordless exasperation and followed.

They picked their way through the forest in silence, following game trails, avoiding any sings of patrols. Gnaeus was constantly grumbling under his breath about the noise of Lurog's heavy armour and the deep bootprints he was making, whereas the Orc merely kept a hand on his mace and constantly scanned the immediate area, ready for any sudden attack. He need not have worried; there had been few sentries posted far from where Gnaeus had said the camp would be, and they had already dealt with most of them. The way was clear.

In the dense forest, the three miles took over an hour and a half, but eventually Gnaeus and Lurog cautiously approached the edge of the tree line, looking out over a massive clearing, several acres wide. Below them was a large military camp, with haphazard rows of tents of varying sizes spread out in a hollow. Training grounds were visible, slick with mud due to the constant pounding of boots, with a select few warriors bellowing orders and walking around assessing the results of sparring. Smoke and the pounding of hammer on anvil marked the location of armourers, and everywhere there were soldiers; motley collections of all races, with no indication of a uniform anywhere. Weapons and armour varied widely, with many having mere scraps of leather, while others were sporting heavy chainmail. An air of fanaticism was prevalent, detectable even from the overlooking hill. If watchmen were employed, they failed to spot the Orc and Imperial peering out at them from the shadows cast by the trees.

Gnaeus snorted, albeit quietly, much to Lurog's relief. "That lot, an army? More like a collection of several hundred barely-trained farmboys and bandits," he muttered, contempt evident in his tone. He wrenched parchment and a quill from his belt pouch and began scribbling furiously, leaning on his knee.

Lurog grunted. "Look over there," he growled, pointing to a better organised section of camp. "That lot know what they're doing. Orcs. Well-trained, by the look of em." That section of the camp was indeed better organised, with tents in actual rows rather than being strewn about all over the place. The Orcs striding about also seemed better-equipped than the rest of the army, with several in plate armour, and most hefting battleaxes or two-handed maces. Beyond the camp, the white columns of the Ayleid ruin of Atatar were just visible above the trees.

"Quiet, I'm writing," snarled Gnaeus. "Let's see... I'd say there's at least seven hundred ration thieves down there, give or take a few."

"I reckon on about eighty Orcs at least," rumbled Lurog, craning his thick neck for a better look. "That's- Malacath's blood, that's Burzukh right there." The Orc's well-trained eyes had picked out his old friend immediately, the scarred, one-eyed Orc having an animated conversation with one of his men.

"Sod him. Where's the command tent? I want to lay eyes on this young upstart you seem to worship."

Lurog directed a glare towards his companion. "It's called _respect_, old man, something you seem to lack. And he won't have a command tent; he'll be staying in those Ayleid ruins." Gnaeus muttered something unintelligible and kept writing.

A rare flash of sunlight glimmering on burnished armour caught Lurog's eye. Unconsciously, a grim expression spread over his face as he watched the Redguard walk over to Burzukh and engage him in conversation. Lurog remembered him, images from his memory flashing before his eyes. He was tall with a powerful build, with black hair cropped short and deep-set brown eyes that seemed to relentlessly search for weaknesses. The full suit of plate armour he was wearing was ancient, forged by Ayleids long ago, and was strong and durable while still being light. The immense claymore strapped to the Redguard's back seemed to pulse with a dull red glow, even with the hungry blade sheathed. Lurog narrowed his eyes. He had never felt the bite of Sinweaver, but a close friend had.

"Azani Blackheart," he whispered, his gaze full of both respect and malice. Gnaeus looked up.

"Where?" he snapped. Lurog pointed. "Ah... good that he's here. I gathered that he's absent quite a lot of the time." The old Imperial bent his head again, starting on a fresh sheet of parchment.

Boots crunching on fallen leaves snapped Lurog's head around. "We've got to move, old man," he told Gnaeus, caressing the hilt of his mace while shooting the Imperial a warning glance.

"Sure, sure..." mumbled Gnaeus distractedly as he stuffed his parchment and quill back into his belt pouch. The footsteps were coming closer as they faded back into the undergrowth as quietly as they could. Gnaeus grimaced at the heavy footfalls and clinking armour of his comrade, his own light leather boots and cloth tunic making no sound as he crept backwards with practised ease. Fortunately, the approaching footsteps were slow, and by the time the two patrolling sentries – one Khajiit, one Redguard – found the flattened grass and bent bushes the two scouts had left, they were long gone.

"Did you get what you need?" asked Lurog as they slowly made their way back through the forest to the Yellow Road. He was still keeping an eye out at all times; only fools and green recruits let their guard down in potentially hostile territory.

"I'll remember what I haven't written down," replied Gnaeus. "I can write it up when we get back to that inn."

"A single company could put that lot to the sword," snorted Lurog in contempt, unconsciously clenching a fist around his mace head. "Did you see the way they've set up camp? A blind goblin could do better than that. They're nothing but a rabble." The Orc sneered into the growth to either sides of them as he continued his tirade. "Training grounds are all very well, but you can't train if you've got no ability to start with. Blackheart has to have to Orcs training them, or mercenaries, and you can't expect them to whip unskilled farmboys into soldiers in mere weeks."

"I know!" snapped Gnaeus, turning to glare at Lurog. "Don't think you know anything about soldiering I don't, greenskin!"

"Where did you serve, then?" questioned the Orc.

Gnaeus bit back an angry reply. "See, Orc, the people who I shared an island with knew better than to ask me that after I left the first two with broken ribs," he told him in a conversational tone. "I don't care _what_ you've done, _cavalry officer_, but it doesn't compare to what these old hands have seen and done. Never."

Lurog held his gaze for a second, then shook his head. "I will respect your right to privacy," he growled. "Others-" The Orc was cut off by two Argonians, a Khajiit and a Dunmer silently emerging from the forest around them, weapons at the ready, all with steel in their gaze.

"We heard you arguing from two miles away," rasped one of the Argonians, his scale armour painted dull green to blend in with his surroundings. Clearly an experienced mercenary – the same of which could be said for his comrades – he was hefting his two shortswords with practised ease. "Your tongues have led to your deaths. Do they have any final words to form before we end your existence?"

"You would really murder two harmless travellers?" asked Gnaeus, a rather convincing look of horror spreading over his face as he slowly backed away, empty hands held up in front of him. All four mercenaries laughed.

"Nice try, old man," snarled the Dunmer, drawing a large claymore, his bonemould armour creaking slightly at the movement. "Turns out that _someone's_ been killing our sentries... and you still have their blood on your tunic." His scarlet eyes were fixed on the crimson stain on Gnaeus's thigh.

"Oh... so I have..." Gnaeus let his hands drop to his broadsword, and he drew the gleaming ebony blade in one smooth motion. "Well, come on, you bastards, let's be having you!" he barked, settling into a defensive posture and beckoning. Lurog moved to stand by his side, mace held loosely in his right hand, the head brushing the grass. His large shield was raised, covering him from neck to mid-thigh.

The other Argonian wasted no time in stepping forward and hurling his javelin at Gnaeus while his three companions rushed forward. Ducking momentarily behind Lurog's shield, Gnaeus watched dispassionately as the javelin missed him by mere inches before stepping forward and parrying the Dunmer's overhead chop, letting his defence sag slightly under the sheer power of the blow, taking a step back. A slash aimed at his midsection was also absorbed by the ebony blade, Gnaeus taking another step to the side, away from Lurog, who was holding off both the sword-wielding Argonian and the Khajiit, while the other Argonian crept slowly towards Gnaeus with scimitar at the ready. Sensing a weakness in the defence of the Imperial, the Dark Elf spat a curse at him and swung at him with full fury in a cleave intended to smash aside Gnaeus's defence. Instead of blocking, the spry Imperial instead ducked, rolling forward, under the mercenary as he staggered, overbalanced by the unexpected lack of resistance. Smoothly rising to his feet, Gnaeus turned and rammed his sword into his opponent's back, relentlessly pushing it further in until he felt the blade leap in his hand as it made contact with the dying mer's heart.

As Gnaeus withdrew his blade and moved to attack the hovering Argonian, Lurog took several steps back to gain more space. The Khajiit leaped after him, war axe flashing as a rare ray of sunlight broke through the leafy canopy above them. Lurog reversed his movement and charged forward, smashing the heavy steel shield into his head, hearing a crunch as the cat's nose was crushed. Kicking his wounded opponent's legs from under him, Lurog turned rapidly to counter the threat of the swift Argonian, who had darted around to exploit the Orc's temporary open defence. Thrusting with both shortswords, the lizard was not expecting Lurog to sidestep and pin one of his arms between his mace arm and his body, while his other attack skittered harmlessly off the Orc's thick chainmail. Bending slightly, Lurog raised his shield and slammed the sharp edge down onto his enemy's right foot, crushing the bone and slicing through the webs. Releasing the Argonian's arm, he planted a boot firmly into his scaled chest, sending him crashing to the ground, his foot a bloody ruin.

The Khajiit was back on his feet, growling curses in his native language, words sounding distorted as blood spurted from his dented face. His eyes full of hatred, he leapt once again at the bulky Orc, only to have his axe ripped from his hand by Lurog's well-placed parry, leaving him helpless as the Orc stepped forward, raised his mace, and brought it down upon the cat's head, crushing his skull. Ripping his mace free – it had lodged in the start of the Khajiit's spine – Lurog turned and finished the downed Argonian with a savage kick to the throat.

"Lithe young bugger, weren't you?" growled Gnaeus to the hapless Argonian skirmisher as he brutally twisted his broadsword, embedded in the lizard's stomach. The mercenary's scream was swiftly turned into a ragged gurgle by blood and bile clogging his throat. Disgusted, Gnaeus wrenched his blade free and looked around to find a suitable leaf to clean it with, shaking off the dying Argonian's hand clutching at his ankle. "They'll almost definitely have heard that miles away, if there are others searching," he observed, glaring down at the dead mercenaries.

"We were fortunate that it was only a small patrol," rumbled Lurog, using a handful of leaves torn from a nearby tree to remove the stubborn grey matter from the head of his mace. "We should move as quickly as we can over this terrain. You know the way back to the inn; you lead."

"Should have known you'd say that," retorted Gnaeus. "Never make it easy for the old man, I get it..." shaking his head, he sheathed his broadsword and started off to the west, falling into a steady jog, Lurog following close behind, armour rattling loudly. By the time another patrol found the bodies of their comrades, the two infiltrators had long gone, safe under the cover of the approaching night.

* * *

**A/N: You'll note that Count Hassildor has grey eyes in this fic. That's because red eyes on anyone but a Dunmer is virtually a tattoo on his forehead saying: 'I am a vampire'. His eyes are grey due to Illusion magic. Makes sense.**

**And that's another chapter finished, with 250,000 words broken. I dunno how long this fic is going to end up... over 300,000 for sure. To be honest, I have absolutely no idea what happens in the next chapter to start with, so it might take a while, especially now that college is back. Still, I push ever onward... and, remember, reviews always help me. So leave one.**


	29. Duty and Revenge

**A/N: It's been a while since the last update. Three and a half weeks, in fact. Given that I HAVE had spare time, I cannot offer an excuse for this lateness. I'm simply too bloody lazy sometimes. Ah, well, it's here now. More reviews would always help. And as for those who did review:**

**Random Reader: Yeah, grey eyes seem logical, or anyone with common sense would meet the Count and know exactly what he was. And, yes, war does tend to help mature people, and Aerin's an example of that. It should be said that even if it was Malacath invading right now, Gorgoth would still have to oppose him due to his Blades Oath. If he didn't have that, he'd join Malacath in a heartbeat. Saliith, right now, is busy chewing through gladiators and minotaurs. He WILL get more screen-time soon, I promise. As for those mods, I barely play Oblivion any more, so getting more might seem a bit redundant. Besides, right now, I'm happy with OOO and MM.**

**Burz gro-Khash: The Hassildor-eyes concept is open for use; in my opinion, it's just common sense, nothing else to it. The Count isn't stupid, so concealment is logical. Anyhow, I can say for sure that we WILL see Lurog in future chapters, and as for Gorgoth... well, I DO have an ingame character called Gorgoth gro-Kharz, but he doesn't look much like the actual Gorgoth. War braids aren't an option, for starters. This is a story, so characters are painted in people's minds by words, not images.**

**Underpaid Critic: I do see what you mean, and I WILL try to cut down on my comma count, but it will be hard for me, given that I have a definite preference for long sentences. As for nitpicking, I do welcome it; like you said, it helps me improve.**

**Wildcat: Yes, my chapters are long. I prefer them that way, always have. Means I can actually get something of note done in a chapter while having enough room to describe it adequately.**

**Right, enough of my rambling, here's the chapter. Don't forget to review.**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-nine: Duty and Revenge**

It had taken a fair amount of vehement arguing on Gorgoth's part to clear his name with the Bravil Guard before he set off to Chorrol, but eventually they decided to ignore the deaths of two Blackwood Company members and the injury of another. He kept quiet about what he had done to Maglir. The guardsmen would probably not take kindly to the fact that he had only stopped torturing the Wood Elf just after the sun rose due to a lack of time. He could have kept up the agony for a day longer at least, but instead had killed the traitor after ten hours, eager to return to Oreyn. Reaching Chorrol a day and a half later, he ignored the driving rain as he stabled Vorguz and headed towards the Fighter's Guild.

Shoving open the door, the massive Orc ducked through the doorway, ignoring the wet, muddy footprints he was treading over the oak-panelled floor. He almost walked into Viranus Donton, the young Imperial starting back in surprise. "Where's Oreyn?" asked Gorgoth, peering around the hall to find no-one except Kurz gro-Baroth, downing a tankard of ale.

"Excessive paperwork combined with heavy drinking the night before gave him a headache. He's in his house," responded Viranus, clearly just having come from the training ground around the back of the Guildhall. His matted hair was slowly dripping water down the back of his mud-splattered cuirass. "I don't think it's wise to dist-" Gorgoth had already left, slamming the door shut behind him.

Putting his head down slightly to keep the rain out of his eyes – his sole concession to the weather – Gorgoth stomped through the near-empty streets to Oreyn's house, which stood in the shadow of the west wall. It was a simple affair, built in the style of most lower-priced Chorrol houses, with thick stone walls holding up a sturdy thatched roof. Gorgoth walked up to the door, noting the fact that he was a full six inches taller than the door frame, and pounded his fist on the simple wood, hard enough for the blows to resound all around the street but not hard enough to splinter the wood.

After banging on the door for some time, Gorgoth was rewarded by a surly Dunmeri voice on the other side of the door growling for him to identify himself. "Protector Gorgoth, here on Guild business," rumbled Gorgoth, resting his arm on the door frame. There was a pause, then a rusty grinding reached the Orc's ears and the lock was disengaged. Oreyn wrenched the door open and beckoned Gorgoth inside.

Ducking under the door frame, Gorgoth took a quick look at his surroundings as Oreyn closed the door behind him. The entire house was separated into two simple rooms, linked by a doorway. Gorgoth found himself taking in the simplicities of the main room, its occupant clearly not being one for luxury. Bare wood-panelled walls surrounded a stone-floored living area, with an unmade single bed rammed up against the wall in the far right corner. The rest of the space was taken up by an overloaded bookshelf, a small table piled high with papers weighed down by daggers of varying quality, a few chairs, and a wardrobe that looked decidedly overbalanced.

Modryn himself looked dishevelled, naked from the waist upwards, clearly having reluctantly dragged himself from bed. One side of his heavily muscled, ash-grey torso bore fading imprints of the stones that he must have been pressed up against while sleeping. "You were dealing with Maglir, correct?" growled the Dunmer, moving over to sit back on his bed, running a hand through his loose, shoulder-length black hair, which for once was falling over his face in the absence of anything tying it back.

"I was. He defected to the Blackwood Company." Oreyn's face twisted into a snarl at the revelation, but Gorgoth continued on over any reaction. "I completed the contract that he was assigned to, then... dealt with him." The Orc kept his face utterly emotionless.

"Define 'dealt'," ordered Modryn, his eyes sharpening and meeting the Orc's.

"I tortured him to death over a period of ten hours," responded Gorgoth, with utterly no change evident in his voice or face. "He deserved worse. However, time is no longer as free as it used to be."

Modryn held Gorgoth's gaze for a moment, then a smile spread across his face. "You know, Gorgoth, I'm starting to like you," he told the Protector, chuckling softly.

"Nothing but my duty. Traitors deserve worse," replied Gorgoth, standing with arms folded, water slowly dripping from the ends of his war braids to the stone floor. "Do you have any other duties for me?"

Oreyn slowly shook his head, leaning back against the wall and sighing. "Not at the moment. Burz gro-Khash was crying out for someone to help him with his contract load, though. Maybe you'd better give him a call if you're looking for work." The Dark Elf sighed and leaned his head back, staring up at the ceiling. "Now piss off. I have a hangover." Gorgoth nodded and made his exit, closing the door behind him.

The rain was pouring down even harder than before, the accompanying mist reducing visibility. Shrugging irritably as water started trickling down his back, soaking his clothing under his armour, Gorgoth started off for the inn he'd seen just past the South Gate. It would be too late in the day to start travelling, and Vorguz deserved his rest in the warm, dry stables outside the city.

By the time he entered The Grey Mare, most of Gorgoth's body was soaked and chilled. The pounding of the rain on the roof was drawing the attention of a fair few patrons, who were apparently making decisions to stay in the warm inn a while longer. Gorgoth caught Emfrid's eye and held up a single finger. The Nord nodded; Gorgoth had visited the Grey Mare a few times before, and she knew what to supply him with. Gorgoth ignored the squelching sound made by his boots every time his foot hit the wooden floor and stomped over to an unoccupied table, sitting down carefully. The chairs in the inn were strong, but not Orsinium strong.

While waiting for a beer, Gorgoth stopped drumming his fingers on the table as he recognised a voice from the table next to him. Turning his head slightly, he regarded the Orc with confusion. The large Orsimer, wearing studded leather armour with a large axe hanging from his belt, was speaking loudly, with expansive gestures, to two Nords. In front of him on the table was an untouched tankard. Distracted by the arrival of his own beer, Gorgoth gulped half of it down while wondering over the identity of his loud neighbour. He knew he recognised that broad face, those small, beady, dark eyes from somewhere...

_The Orc's dark eyes seemed to desperately appeal to whatever humanity Gorgoth had left as he drove the small, narrow blade further and further behind his knee. Naked flesh and muscle, long stripped of any skin, uselessly contracted and convulsed in a futile effort to escape as the agony grew even more intense, Gorgoth's spell preventing him from slipping into the dark embrace of unconsciousness..._

Gorgoth's eyes widened momentarily before he forced his stoic exterior back into place. He pushed his half-finished beer away and stood, walking over to the Orc's table. "Grat?" he asked, staring down at the Orc. "Grat gro-Yarzol?"

"That's me," grunted the Orc, regarding this new arrival with impatience. "What do you want?"

Gorgoth regarded him coldly for a moment. "You will remember me," he told him slowly. "I am Gorgoth gro-Kharz."

Confusion reigned for a few seconds on Grat's face before his eyes widened in horror. He jumped to his feet, nearly overturning the table into the faces of the two Nords, and dashed for the exit, but Gorgoth was quicker. Grabbing him by the neck, he threw Grat across the inn into the wall, splintering it with the impact. Before he could recover, Gorgoth had a conjured shortsword to his throat.

"_How_ are you still alive?" snarled Gorgoth, pressing the blade to the Orc's throat hard enough to draw a trickle of blood. "I watched you die in the depths of agony after torturing you for four days, when even my magic couldn't keep your ruined body alive. _How_ did you survive?"

"What?" gasped Grat. He promptly had his head bashed against the wall.

"Do _not_ play games with me," growled Gorgoth, peering around at the shocked, scared faces of the inn's patrons. Sending Illusion magic straight to Grat's brain, Gorgoth stepped back and let his summoned weapon dissipate. The Orc grunted and lost all focus temporarily as the sudden brutality of the Command spell took over, but then they refocused, looking at Gorgoth with terror. They were about the only thing he had control of; he was fully conscious, but Gorgoth had full control of his body.

Shooting a warning glance around the common room, Gorgoth stalked out into the rain, Grat helplessly following him, Gorgoth's demands communicating efficiently through the insidious spell infecting the Orc's brain. The gate guards, huddling down inside their inadequate cloaks, barely gave the two a glance as they left Chorrol. Certainly, they wouldn't have noticed the silent pleading of Gorgoth's captive. The warrior-shaman led Grat past the remains of the Oblivion Gate that he'd closed with ease some weeks previously, and into the forest. He stopped after a mile or so, in the centre of a tiny clearing, and released the spell.

Staggering back as his body was suddenly released to his control again, Grat had no time to run. Gorgoth's fist slammed into his stomach, the sheer power treating his leather armour like it was paper and doubling the hapless warrior over. Another strike, this time from the left, dug in between his ribs, painfully forcing the air from his lungs. Gorgoth stepped back and delivered a savage kick to Grat's jaw, sending bloodied teeth flying across the clearing as the Orc crashed to the ground. Two more kicks cracked and broke several ribs, leaving Grat moaning in pain as Gorgoth knelt by his head and wrenched it back by gripping one of his mid-back-length war braids.

"It wasn't you, that is definite," muttered Gorgoth, glaring into Grat's dark yellow eyes. "So, who did I torture to death ten years ago?" Grat spat blood in his face and swore in Orcish. Gorgoth calmly wiped the crimson-stained saliva from his rain-soaked face and summoned a small dagger. He hefted it for a second, then drove it ruthlessly into Grat's groin, stabbing at the root of his genitalia. Gorgoth let his victim scream and convulse for a second before letting go of the hilt and grabbing his jaw. "_Who was it?_"

"My twin brother!" roared Grat, his eyes wild and frantic. "I knew you were coming," he explained, panting harshly, his breath coming in wheezes. "We both knew it. Over those two years, you killed the other five... my time was next." He paused for breath. Gorgoth let the dagger dissipate and kept up his stony stare, ice-cold rage flickering in his eyes. "He offered to die for me. I was worth more than him, he said; he was lame, a wounded right leg. Not that you'd have noticed that after five minutes." Grat coughed harshly, glaring up at his captor. "And now you've found me, ten years on. Well, let's get this over and done with, Bastard."

Gorgoth slowly rose to his feet. "All this time, I thought there was only one left..." he muttered, half talking to himself. "That one will be dealt with in time. But _you_..." An evil gleam appeared in Gorgoth's eyes. "As for _you_, I have refined my techniques since I ravaged your brother. I..." His voice trailed off. Gorgoth's head began to pound, and he put a hand to his temple, squeezing his eyes shut to control the pain. The shock was getting to him. Grunting with the effort, he opened them again.

_He was no longer in the clearing in the forest; he was in a dirty, single-room mud hut in Orsinium. Rain pounded down outside, but the young Orc only had eyes for the body lying on the crimson-splattered table in the centre of the room. Kharz gra-Shagren had been attractive in life, but in death, not much remained of her that was recognisable. After raping her numerous times, the killers had not held back, laughing as they skinned her, joking as they ripped her limb from limb, barely paying attention to the ten-year old Orc crouched in the corner, watching everything with wide eyes, occasionally wincing as a spray of his mother's blood hit him. After the six Orcs had left them alone, he had hesitantly walked over to her. Looking at her helplessly, he pathetically attempted to call her name, reaching down to touch her cheek..._

...and abruptly he was back in the forest clearing, the rain pounding down on the trees overhead, finding gaps and pouring down on him. His outstretched hand was inches from Grat's face, the disabled Orc looking up at him with horror. Gorgoth snatched his hand back, recoiling at the memory, clenching his fists. Pain racked his mind, the pain at losing the woman who had loved him for the first ten years of his life, despite him being an unwanted bastard. Pain, at losing someone he had loved with his entire heart and soul. His normal stoic exterior was shattered as Gorgoth fell to his knees and roared in pain and rage, in frustration and in sorrow. Emptying his lungs, he took another breath and roared again, his wordless bellow shaking raindrops from leaves overhead. His air spent, Gorgoth's head dropped onto his chest as he gasped for air, ignoring the wounded Orc in front of him, ignoring the wind howling overhead, ignoring the bloodstained grass beneath him. For seconds, nothing else existed.

Reality returned, and the world slipped back into focus. Gorgoth's moment of weakness passed, his emotional armour once again in place. A look of death crept into his eyes, and he raised his gaze to look at Grat. The Orc threw himself backwards and fumbled for his axe, attempting to find his feet. Gorgoth stood and kicked his weapon away. It spun out of his hands and embedded itself in a tree. Stamping his boot down on Grat's foot, Gorgoth delivered a stunning uppercut, putting the Orc on his back, his foot broken. As Grat voiced his pain, his yell shaking the trees once again, Gorgoth summoned a delicate shortsword.

"I have all the time in the world," he growled. "You are finally going to pay the price in blood for what you did. And it will _not_ be quick."

* * *

The clannfear straightened slightly in order to sniff at a leaf drooping from the low-hanging branch of a tree. The advanced stage of autumn meant that it was dark brown, ready to fall, another leave to pockmark the inches-deep snow lying in the sparse forest eight miles west of Cloud Ruler Temple. Snowfall had stopped, but the daedra emerging slowly from the Gate, a mile distant, were still treading carefully in the foreign substance.

An arrow flashed through the air, the weak sun reflecting on the barbed steel head before it embedded itself an inch behind the clannfear's eyes. It tore straight through its brain and exited on the other side, plunging into the tree with so much force that it held the daedra pinned there. Silence descended upon the forest for another few seconds.

Cautiously, Captain Renault emerged from behind a tree, rendered mostly anonymous by her concealing plate armour and helmet. She had already nocked another arrow to her composite bow, and her eyes scanned for more danger, despite Selene's Detect Life spell showing no enemies in the immediate vicinity. "Thanks for the boost," she muttered to the battlemage behind her, referring to the enhancement Selene had laid upon the arrow just before she'd released it.

"My pleasure," muttered Selene distractedly, following the Knight Captain, using her glaive as a walking staff while maintaining the heating spell that kept the wind from chilling her bare skin. "I can't see any others in the area... the only life signatures are our comrades." The squad of eight had split up in teams of two in order to make a more stealthy approach to the Gate. Renault nodded and motioned for Selene to follow her forward, ignoring the arrow impaling the clannfear; getting it back out would take too long and could attract unwanted attention.

They moved forward slowly, booted feet crunching in the snow. The gouts of fire leaping from the Gate were easily visible through the trees, and served as an excellent guidance beacon. It steadily grew closer as they cautiously stepped over bodies of dead daedra, some of them hewn in several different places. Renault suppressed a smirk; Haesmar had insisted on keeping his massive battleaxe when he'd joined the Blades several years ago, and the Nord was brutally effective when he got his blood up. Several daedra now also knew that, much to their regret.

"Daedroth, to the left," muttered Selene, pointing in the direction of the bulky life signature visible through the trees and giving the Breton a questioning glance. Renault gave her a nod of confirmation, and the battlemage walked assertively past a snow-laden pine, coming face to face with the hulking behemoth. She calmly ignored its roars of fury and sent ball lightning at it. Turning before the smoking corpse had finished crashing to the ground, Selene fell back into position just behind the Knight Captain, constantly scanning the area for hostile or unfamiliar life signatures.

The cover of the trees suddenly ended, and they found themselves staring across a scorched, muddied clearing at the Oblivion Gate they'd come to destroy. Corpses of daedra sparsely decorated the small open area, bearing a variety of wounds. Four Blades were already standing in combat stances near the Gate. The bulky, blood-splattered figure of Haesmar was easy visible, his size making Callia Petit, who was watching his back warily, even more diminutive. At the other side of the Gate, Glenroy and Fortis Denian were busy repeatedly plunging their katanas into a crippled, armless daedroth, grimacing in frustration as the massive crocodile-headed daedra simply refused to capitulate.

As Renault and Selene approached the Gate, two more Blades – Achille Meric and Baurus - emerged from the tree line to their right. Renault gave them a quick glance, then did a double take. "Baurus, what...?" her voice was strangulated by the sight of the blazing katana shining in the Redguard's hands.

"It was getting wasted as a paperweight in Martin's study," explained Baurus, a smirk tugging at a corner of his mouth as he gave Goldbrand a fond glance. "He didn't mind me taking it. At least it'll be put to good use here."

Renault nodded, quickly recovering her composure. "Good point. Just don't lose it." She turned to the assembled squad, all of whom were keeping at least one eye on the Gate. The sheer heat was making Haesmar, who was closest, wince as his armour-clad Nordic body rebelled against the oppressive atmosphere. "All right, in there is daedra, death, and a threat to the Emperor," she told them. "We're going to neutralise that threat. Baurus, you had the 'wisdom' to bring that, so you take point." The Redguard nodded and stepped up to the gate, his face grim behind his helmet's cheekguards. "The rest of you, stay together – not too close – and keep both eyes open. Move!"

Baurus hesitated for only a heartbeat before walking steadily into the Gate, Goldbrand a shining beacon held in front of him. Renault and the rest of the squad followed within seconds. Moments later, they emerged into Oblivion, panting but forcing themselves into combat stances, attempting to ignore their bodies crying out in protest at the portal's rough treatment. It was fortunate that the disciplined, well-trained Blades were able to recover quickly, as a motley assortment of daedra roaming around the Gate had wasted no time in charging at them.

None of the mortals had to be told what to do, and in any case, none had any breath in their lungs to waste. Baurus was reached first: a clannfear decided to try its luck, lunging for him with its beak jabbing. Deflecting the creature's attack with his shield, Baurus smoothly sidestepped and slashed at its torso. Goldbrand cut through the thick skin and flesh like it was paper, searing and igniting the flesh around it. The clannfear squealed in agony as half its chest was cleaved in two, flames licking at the rest of its body, spreading out from the deep slash as the daedra collapsed at the Redguard's feet.

There was no time for the other Blades to admire Baurus's swordwork as he started to hack a path through the daedra; each had a battle of their own to think about. Renault had managed to drop a Seducer with an arrow in the chest, but a Dremora quickly bore down on her and she'd dropped the composite bow, katana ringing as it flashed from her scabbard just in time to parry the Kynaz's mace swing. The heavy weapon's blow shook her entire right arm, but she managed to keep her balance and take a step back, buying time to wrench her shield off her back. Another step back almost took her back into the Gate – she could feel the heat on her back – but the Dremora's second swing missed and he staggered slightly, giving her enough of an opening to bash her shield across his face, lowering his defence and allowing her to thrust her katana through his armpit.

Pushing the body off her blade, ignoring the hot blood spraying over her face and armour, Renault looked around for more danger. Three Dremora were abruptly blasted apart as Selene's lightning ripped through them. Most of the daedra in sight were dead or dying. Renault grunted and sheathed her katana, picking up her bow again before straightening and taking a proper look at their surroundings.

She'd known what to expect, of course – Glenroy had been very detailed in his debriefing – but it was evident that no matter how prepared one was, Oblivion still overwhelmed the mind at first sight. A scattered collection of rocky, fractured islands dotted this part of the Deadlands, stretching out to the murky horizon. A handful of smaller towers rose from some of the islands, whereas others were utterly barren. The Sigil Keep speared towards the angry sky ahead of them, separated from the Blades by numerous rivers of lava. Geysers of steam periodically rose from underground vents, dissipating rapidly after heating the already-hot air.

"I don't see a bridge, Captain," observed Haesmar, his voice slow as usual as he looked out across the Deadlands. "And I really don't care for swimming in that stuff."

"We'll find a way," replied Renault, signalling for Baurus to take the lead as they moved out to find a way down through the rocky terrain to the lava's edge. Loose stones crumbled and slid underfoot, making the advance somewhat treacherous given the heavy armour of the Blades, but fortunately daedric activity was light; two scamps were taken down by Renault's arrows, while Selene dispatched a Storm Atronach with a few fireballs. Within a few moments, they had made their way down to the lava's edge to be confronted with a wide channel of molten rock. The intensification of the heat around them meant that Haesmar's blonde hair was soon matted with sweat; the big Nord wasn't complaining – he never did - but he clearly wasn't suited to the environment.

"Right, so we're getting across this by levitating?" asked Fortis, shooting a sideways glance at Selene.

"That's the plan," confirmed Renault. "We island hop until we reach the Sigil Keep." She gave a nod to Selene, who raised her right arm slightly. A purple haze covered her entire body momentarily before vanishing. Without pausing, the half-elf put a foot in the air, starting the climb through thin air. Instead of hitting the platform of Alteration magic, however, Selene's boot slammed back to the rocky bank. Baurus grabbed the shocked battlemage's arm to stop her staggering into the lava.

"It's... it's not working," she stammered, looking impotently down at her right hand, which was faintly glowing purple due to the maintained spell.

Glenroy frowned, eyebrows scraping against his helmet's noseguard. "It worked in the other plane," he mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe..." He broke off, looking suspiciously up at a distant walkway between two towers.

"Can you get us to walk across it, at least?" Renault asked Selene, keeping her frustration firmly leashed.

The half-elf shook her head, her golden hair whipping in a sudden stray gust of wind. "The heat would melt our boots within seconds, and I can't provide enough magical resistance," she grunted, pounding a fist against her thigh. "I can't get us to jump that far, either." She sighed. "I can't see a way across from here. I don't know what's wrong with my levitation..." Achille snorted and muttered something under his breath. Renault shot him a sharp glance before leaning on her bow and thinking hard.

"The daedra must have reached this island somehow," she muttered, talking half to herself. "But there are no bridges... they can't go _over_ the lava, so..." The Knight Captain grunted as the thought hit her. "We'll go under it," she told the squad. A few exchanged sideways glances. "There is almost definitely a system of caves in this plane. Split up and find an entrance."

It didn't take long. Within minutes, Callia had found a jagged hole in a ridge and summoned them to it. A dull red glow pulsed faintly in the distance, but apart from that, darkness reigned in the passage. "Doesn't look too wide," observed Baurus, peering inside. "I'm guessing I'll be taking point?"

Renault nodded. "Keep that glorified torch out," she told him, nodding to Goldbrand "That'll help with visibility. Selene, follow him closely, you never know when Light spells might be needed. We'll be behind you."

Baurus squared his shoulders, drew Goldbrand, and walked into the fissure without looking back. Selene followed quickly, and after a few seconds Renault jerked her head towards the crack and led the rest of the squad through. Goldbrand's brilliant light lit most of the passage, revealing walls of dry grey rock and a loose, sandy gravel that crunched beneath their boots. It was narrow enough to force them to walk in single file, in a hushed silence, all ears straining for the first sign of daedric contact.

As the passage curved and broadened, the red glow became more prominent, as did the heat. Sweat soon drenched the clothing of the Blades under their plate armour, collecting in their boots. That discomfort was trivial, however, when compared with the threat of the assortment of lesser daedra waiting round the next corner. A daedroth pushed a scamp out of the way in eagerness to reach the mortals, blocking the passage as it did so. Selene's glaive knocked aside its claws and allowed Baurus to step within range an drive Goldbrand into its stomach. The massive reptile howled and fell as its guts sizzled.

Withdrawing the katana with ease, Baurus took a second to appreciate how all the blood simply evaporated off superheated blade before looking back to his front, where a Dremora and a scamp had shoved the daedroth out of the way and were advancing. The passage was still narrow, allowing only two to fight abreast. As the rest of the squad watched impatiently, Baurus stepped forward and neatly sliced through the Dremora's breastplate. Selene, her normal fighting style restricted by the confines of the tunnel, merely knocked aside the scamp's clumsy lunge and impaled it on her glaive, kicking it off without a second thought.

"This is taking too long," reminded Renault, a hint of impatience in her voice as she stood ready behind the pair, katana drawn.

"Fine, fine," muttered Selene, taking a step back and throwing her left palm outward. A wave of frost magic descended upon the daedra ahead of them, the air crackling as it passed through, freezing them solid. Renault jerked her head forward and the squad moved up, roughly shoving the ice statues out of the way. They shattered easily, the sound echoing down the passage over the pounding of the squad's boots. Reaching a spacious cavern dotted with geysers and small cracks revealing lava underneath, they were immediately confronted with four Dremora, two daedroths, and a Spider daedra.

As the arachnid crumpled, her body riven by Selene's lightning, the Blades moved swiftly to attack the others. Goldbrand flashed as it sliced through a Dremora's sword before continuing on through his torso, cutting him in two. This left his flank open, and Renault quickly jumped in to divert the daedroth who was about to lunge for the Redguard. Knocking its claw aside with her shield, she swung at its neck. The tough skin and the daedroth's movement meant that her katana left only a shallow gash. Cursing, Renault stepped back to defend against the inevitable charge, but before the reptile could move, it bellowed in agony and dropped to its knees as Callia hamstrung it from behind. Both Bretons moved quickly to sink their katanas deep into its chest. Wrenching their blades free, they kicked the crocodile-headed daedra aside to find the rest of the melee over.

"Judging by the heat, I'd say we're pretty near that bloody lake," grunted Haesmar, blinking sweat out of his eyes then running a hand over his face.

"Good. No time to waste. Baurus, lead on," commanded Renault, wiping her katana on a cloth she kept in her belt bag for the purpose.

The Redguard led them deeper under the earth, the atmosphere becoming heavier with every step. Resistance was fortunately light; fighting for prolonged periods in their stifling plate armour could have been lethal for the Blades. The tunnels straightened out, and it became clear that there was one long passage stretching from one island to the next. What had seemed like a short distance from the surface became a long, tiresome walk underground. Haesmar asked Selene more than once if she knew a spell to cool the body, similar to her heating spell, but she could only shake her head helplessly. There had been no need for such a thing on the wind-battered Whiterock.

Reaching the system of caves beneath what she assumed was the next island, Renault swiftly ordered an advance to the surface to get their bearings. Locating the mouth of the cave was easy; they just followed what seemed to be the fresher air. The combined might of Goldbrand and Selene's magic cleared the way easily, brushing aside token resistance. Renault remained wary; light concentrations of daedric forces here meant that there would be far more elsewhere.

They soon emerged back onto the surface. This island appeared to be the same as the one they had just left – numerous rocky ridges scarring a barren wasteland – but it was evident that they were closer to the centre of this plane than before. On the next island over, a small tower rose, reaching for the sky overhead, a thin bridge stretching across the gap between it and the Sigil Keep. Renault let forth a satisfactory grunt.

"That's our target," she announced, pointing with her bow. "I doubt there's a direct path across the surface, but I want every avenue exhausted before we go down there again." She turned to Achille. "You've got good eyes; get up to that ridge and see if you can find a way over to that island." He nodded and slung his shield onto his back, starting to drag his way up the indicated rock formation. The rest of the squad spread out below him, eyes searching for danger. A stray scamp wandered into view and was swiftly dispatched by Renault's arrow.

"Nothing doing, Captain," called down Achille, narrowing his eyes to slits in order to keep out the dusty winds of Oblivion. "I don't see any way across. A few daedra here and there, and nothing else but rocks."

"Any cave entrances?"

"None that I can see from this angle. Looks like we'll have to go back down there." Achille pointed briefly at the cavern they'd just left before slowly easing himself down the ridge. Haesmar grunted but left his protesting at that.

"Well, you all know what to do," Renault told them, looking over at the island ahead of them, imprinting the direction in her mind. "Come on, time is a luxury more than ever right now."

Baurus and Glenroy took the lead as they descended once more into the depths of the earth. Selene followed closely behind them, the illumination of the globe of light hovering a foot above her head allowing them to see with clarity without being blinding. The captain's sense of direction proved to be a good one; they swiftly found themselves in a similar, but distinctly different tunnel burrowing deep under the lava towards the next island. Resistance was light, which forced a seed of gnawing doubt into the Captain's stomach: the daedra knew they were there. The lack of an ambush so far spoke of extensive preparations up ahead. They would face an attack in force, sooner or later.

The passage started gradually sloping upwards, indicating that they'd arrived at the other island. Before they could reach the first cavern, a Xivilai stepped into sight up ahead, ebony battleaxe held effortlessly in one hand, blocking the way ahead. He raised his free hand and beckoned, orange eyes narrowing to slits. Baurus and Glenroy tightened their grips on the hilts of their katanas; in the confines of the tunnel, it would always be a maximum of two against one.

"No time to do the job properly," grated Renault. "Selene, take care of him."

The half-elf shot the Breton a sideways glance before nodding and tapping both Blades ahead of her on the shoulder. Baurus and Glenroy grudgingly pressed themselves against the rocky walls of the passage as the Xivilai's eyes widened slightly. He started to advance rapidly towards them before ball lightning flew from Selene's outstretched palms. The daedra simply raised a hand, and the elemental magic was absorbed into a pink glow spreading over his body. Snarling and increasing his pace, the Xivilai sent a large fireball roaring down the passage. Selene leapt forward in front of the squad and reflected the Xivilai's missile right back at him.

He didn't have time to react as the Mysticism magic propelled the massive ball of flame into him. Selene's hastily created shield blocked the explosion from reaching the squad, but they all winced as the angry flames hammered at it, eager to find a way through. After a few seconds, the air cleared, leaving behind a hot residue and a burning stench. Of the Xivilai, only scattered handfuls of ash and burnt scars on the walls of the tunnel remained.

"Glad you're on our side, Selene," commented Renault. "Move up," she told Baurus and Glenroy, who nodded and started off once again. The passage sloped up sharply, then flattened out as they entered a large cave. Numerous holes in the floor let steam escape from the lava down below into the room, making it comparable to a sauna. However, the bigger problem was the squad of ten Dremora waiting for them.

Four of them instantly nocked arrows to their bows, while the other six split up to attack from both flanks, allowing the archers a free field of fire. Before Selene could react with a shield, four arrows flashed through the gap; one missed and hit the cavern wall, one embedded itself in Callia's hastily-raised shield, and one struck a glancing blow on Fortis's torso, staggering him but leaving him unharmed. The final arrow buried itself in Haesmar's right shoulder. As the Nord winced, barely managing to maintain his right hand's grip on his battleaxe, a Dremora rushed forward, jabbing his mace at his exposed right flank. Callia leapt between them, knocking the mace aside with her shield and slashing at the Dremora's mace arm. Her katana bounced off the daedric plate armour, but the Dremora was put off balance for long enough; Haesmar dropped his battleaxe and stepped in, drew his katana with his good left hand, and hacked half the Kynaz's head off.

As they realised that none of their arrows were going to get past Selene's shield, the Dremora archers cursed in frustration and dropped their bows, drawing maces and swords and closing in. Selene let her shield dissipate and moved to meet them, lightning flashing from the fingers of her left hand, striking down two of them. The other two leapt for her, one hacking at her legs, the other at her head. Sweeping aside the low strike with the haft of her glaive, the half-elf ducked under the high swing and rammed her palm into the Dremora's chest, telekinesis magic propelling the Kynaz into the wall of the cavern with enough force to stun him. The other Dremora attempted another swing, and once again Selene blocked it with her weapon's haft. Reversing the movement, she slashed the Dremora's face open and planted a firm kick into his chest, sending him staggering back into one of the lava holes.

Baurus had already dispatched two Dremora, and at his side Glenroy was wearing another down, driving him back across the cavern. The Kynaz's shield arm slipped momentarily, exposing his upper body, and Glenroy ruthlessly pressed his advantage, forcing his opponent's sword aside with his shield and stabbing him through the throat. Withdrawing his blade and ignoring the Dremora as he slumped choking to the floor, the Imperial turned to find the last remaining Dremora assaulted on all sides by four Blades. He swiftly went down as numerous katanas violated his body. Glenroy grunted and took out a cloth to wipe his katana clean. Baurus was already checking for any signs of daedric reinforcements.

Fortis had taken a blade clean through the forearm, but a potion had taken care of that. Haesmar was being typically straightforward in the treatment of his wound, merely snapping the shaft of the arrow in half and wrenching it the rest of the way through, ignoring the stabbing agony in his shoulder. He then rolled his eyes in exasperation when Selene insisted on taking off his pauldron to remove the ripped shred of cloth from the wound. After she'd healed it, he gave her a typically Nordic broad smile and a friendly pat on the head before replacing his pauldron and picking up his battleaxe.

"Any other threats?" Renault asked Baurus as she joined him at the far end of the cave, sheathing her katana and taking her bow off her back.

"If there are, they're staying quiet," Baurus informed her, head cocked to one side as he strained his ears to pick up any footfall. "And if the air in this place can be called fresh, I'd say it's fresher coming from that way." He pointed down a narrow passage leading away from the cave. A dead Dremora was slumped over the entrance as though to protect it, his entrails decorating the rocky floor.

"Good enough for me," Renault told him. "You lead, as usual." He nodded without a hint of complaint. Discipline always had been strong in the Blades. The Knight Captain jerked her head towards the passage, telling the rest of the squad to follow her, before moving in behind Baurus, stepping over the Dremora's corpse with the indifference of stepping over a fallen log.

Passing through the remaining caves, the squad met no resistance as they climbed towards the surface. Eventually, they reached not an opening in a rocky ridge, but a door, similar to those found in the Sigil Keep. Baurus shot Renault a questioning glance, waiting for her nod of confirmation before forcing the doors apart. Almost immediately, he staggered back, stunned by the arrow that had glanced off his helmet. Renault wrenched him backwards out of danger as the Dremora loosed another arrow through the gap. It passed so close to the left of her face that her cheek felt the wind of its passage. As it bounced off the walls of the passage, Selene created a shield just behind the door, deflecting any further projectiles.

"Well, this looks straightforward," observed Achille, rubbing his chin as he gazed critically towards the doorway. "Send the half-breed in, she can wipe out the whole lot of em."

"Thank you for the suggestion," Renault told him curtly, sending him a withering glare. She turned back to the doorway and spoke to Selene. "Can I fire through that?" she asked.

The battlemage moved her fingers slightly, concentrating hard on her spell, outwardly unperturbed by Achille's suggestion. "You can now," she muttered, brushing sweat away from her eyes. She only succeeded in leaving a bloody streak across her face; most of her arms and torso had been splattered with the blood of a scamp she'd gutted earlier.

Renault stepped up to the open doorway and instinctively flinched as an arrow bounced off the transparent shield of Alteration magic in front of her. The two Dremora archers at the far end of the circular room – clearly the lower level of a small tower – had arrows fully drawn and pointing at her. As she quickly nocked her own arrow, they loosed, assuming the shield was down. They exchanged bemused glances as both arrows bounced off. As Renault fired, they realised their own mistake too late. One fell choking, clawing at the arrow protruding from his throat, while the other dropped his bow and slung his shield off his back.

He succeeded in blocking Renault's next arrow, but he clearly hadn't expected Selene to move up behind the Knight Captain and unleash chain lightning from both hands at him. The charged air crackled as the Dremora was thrown into the wall, his shattered body collapsing on top of his dying comrade. Renault signalled for the squad to move up as Selene dispelled the shield.

They moved swiftly into the room, obviously glad to be out of the humidity and overwhelming heat of the caverns. The lift was standing ready to receive them in the centre of the tower's ground level. Renault ordered them all onto it, staying well away from the spikes, and nodded to Glenroy, who wrenched the nearby lever downwards before jumping on. Most of the squad were thrown off balance by the sudden jerking of the platform and grabbed hold of the spikes or each other before steadying themselves. Selene was looking upwards, the pink glow shimmering at the end of her fingertips indicating an active Detect Life spell.

"Four figures on the first floor, medium size," she warned. "More up above. About ten, twelve." Her hands began to glow dull red with Destruction magic ready to be unleashed.

The platform shuddered to a halt. Two clannfear made their presence known with hissing roars and leapt at the Blades. One was impaled on Callia's katana while the other was bashed aside by Fortis's shield, allowing Haesmar to cleave it in two. Renault's arrow took a Dremora mage in the eye before he could even get his spell away, while Selene's hands sent a dark red stream of magicka into a Flame Atronach. It dropped limply to the floor, dying without a mark on its rapidly cooling body.

"Move up!" barked Renault, pointing upwards with her bow before slinging it onto her back. Drawing her katana and shield, she started running up the stairs behind Baurus and Achille. Anything other than single file would mean an unpleasant death on the spikes below. That fate became the painful reality for a scamp that Baurus roughly shoved aside as the Blades rushed to the top of the tower.

The top level hosted an assortment of alert daedra, who gave the Blades no chance to deploy. Baurus charged in, attempting to give them room, Goldbrand flashing as he removed a Spider Daedra's torso from the rest of her body, then turning to deflect the heavy blow of the Frost Atronach with his shield. He staggered under the force of the blow as Selene got in behind him, sending a fireball spiralling into the Atronach's chest. She promptly came under attack as a Dremora attempted to embed his war axe in her chest. Fortis got in between them and pushed the Dremora away towards the lip of the ledge, both ignoring the danger of what lay below them as they locked weapons.

Haesmar had fought another Dremora to a standstill, but next to him Achille was unprepared for the sheer debilitation of the spells of a Seducer. As he was raising his katana to strike down into her unprotected flesh, he suddenly felt weary to his bones, an insidious exhaustion creeping into every fibre of his being. Within seconds, his katana had dropped from his hand, and he had slumped to his knees, fighting merely to stay awake, let alone fight. As his eyelids started to slide down, the Seducer pulled back a clawed hand, ready to end him, only to find herself impaled on Selene's glaive. Throwing the daedra's body aside, the half-elf dropped to her knees beside the crippled Achille and sent Restoration magic pumping into him, reversing the draining spell. As his eyes sprang open, a look off utter confusion reigned on his face as he stared up at her. Selene was on her feet and back into the fray before he remembered where he was.

Fortis was being hard pressed; the Dremora had been pushing him backwards for a while, battering his shield, leaving the Imperial unable to find an opening. The Blade was unaware how close he was to the edge until his left foot slipped over. Arms flailing, desperately attempting to maintain his tenuous foothold, Fortis looked into the Dremora's eyes. The Kynaz wore a look of exhilaration, of savage exaltation at his kill. He planted a boot into Fortis's chest, sending the Blade screaming down the tower until his body was impaled on the central spike of the lift. The Dremora had no time to savour his victory, however, as he was promptly shoved out into the abyss by an enraged Haesmar.

The big Nord walked slowly to the edge and watched the Dremora's body bounce off the walls on the way down to join Fortis. Turning, he started off down the slope, only to be stopped by Selene's arm barring his passage. "He's dead," she told him, attempting to be gentle. "I'm sorry. But there's nothing that can be done for him now."

Haesmar stared at her blankly before Renault's sharp voice snapped his attention back to the squad. "We move on," she told them briskly. "Mourn for the dead later." She pointed with her bloodstained katana towards a door in the side of the tower. "There's a bridge from here to the Sigil Keep through that door. Selene, you lead."

The half-elf nodded and cautiously wrenched the door open.. The wind buffeted at her as she led the way out, somewhat welcome despite being hot and dry. Recalling the last time she'd been in a plane of Oblivion, she frowned and cast her levitation spell before taking a cautious step off the bridge. Her foot found the solid platform formed by most Levitation spells. She raised an eyebrow as she stepped fully off the bridge to walk alongside Renault. "I don't know why this is working now," she observed, frowning down at the ground far below her.

"I'm not about to complain," grunted Renault. "Just don't let that spell wear off." An idea occurred to her. "Could you get up to the Sigillum Sanguis from here?"

Selene considered it for a moment before shaking her head. "With levitation as unreliable as this, I wouldn't want to risk it," she said, floating back to the bridge to open the door to the Sigil Keep. As a precaution, she encased herself with a strong shield spell before stepping inside. She needn't have bothered; the room was empty. Moving in, the half-elf peered up and down the two long ramps leading from the room. There appeared to be no daedric presence nearby; an ominous sign.

The battlemage was turning back to the squad when a shimmering caught her eye. Eyes widening, she opened her mouth to shout a warning, but it was too late: the Dremora, hidden by a powerful Chameleon spell, calmly stepped up behind Achille and drove his sword through the Akaviri plate armour. The blade punched through the Breton's spine and lungs before exiting just beneath his throat in a spray of blood. Still under the influence of the spell, the Dremora pushed the Blade's body off his sword and attempted to move back into the shadows, but by then Selene had cast a Detect Life spell on everyone in the room.

Baurus, Glenroy and Haesmar all leapt for the hapless Dremora, fury etched on their faces. Baurus severed his sword arm, Glenroy sank his katana deep into his stomach, and Haesmar delivered the finishing blow by decapitating him. The armoured corpse became visible as the horned head rolled over the ground towards Achille. Callia was already straightening from where she'd knelt put her fingers to his neck. She sighed, a grim expression on her face. "How many more are we going to lose taking on that bastard Dagon?" she whispered savagely.

Renault shook her head, her thin lips pressed together in a determined line. "As many as we need to Callia," she told her fellow Breton. "We'll win this war and pay the price, whatever that might be." She sighed. "Move up. Baurus, Haesmar, you lead."

Baurus didn't sheathe Goldbrand; instead, he held it out in front of him as he advanced, lighting the crevasses and shadowed corners of the passage as they headed upwards towards the Sigil Keep. No Illusion magic would take him unprepared this time. Haesmar had a savage snarl firmly planted on his bearded face, which made the blood-splattered Nord seem even more threatening.

The daedra, perhaps wary of the increasing proximity of the Blades to the Sigillum Sanguis, had no intention of making their passage easy. Within minutes of entering the Sigil Keep, the squad hefted their weapons as waves of daedra poured down at them. However, Baurus and Haesmar had got their blood up; the Redguard hacked though the daedric ranks, Goldbrand's edge meeting no resistance as he cleaved upwards, while Haesmar went utterly berserk, roaring like a madman and charging with battleaxe swinging. As the mighty weapon rose and fell time and time again, the walls of the passage upward became increasingly stained with crimson as the Dremora found that not even their daedric plate armour could not keep out a battleaxe wielded expertly by a raging Nord with no regard for his personal safety.

Selene kept herself ready to leap in at any opportunity, but she need not have bothered; the width of the tunnel and the effectiveness of the two Blades ahead of her meant that her magic simply was not needed. The only hazard for Selene, Renault, Callia and Glenroy was trying to avoid slipping on the daedric bodies or in their blood as they continued resolutely upwards. Within minutes, they had fought their way to the next room, and finally the endless hordes of daedra faded away to a few stragglers who were put down with ease. Staggering around and suddenly finding himself with nothing to kill, Haesmar's battleaxe drooped and he bent over, hands on knees, sucking in air in large gulps. The big Nord was painted black with blood from head to toe, not all of it daedric; a lucky stab had penetrated his thigh. Baurus was unharmed; Goldbrand had simply destroyed everything in front of it.

Haesmar jerked when Selene put her hand on his shoulder to heal him. Shaking his head and blinking, he attempted to wipe some of the blood from his face. He succeeded only in rearranging it, so Selene did it for him, removing her gauntlet using her comparatively clean left hand. Nodding his thanks, still breathless, the Knight Brother straightened and walked slowly over to the start of the next spiralling ramp. Renault took one look at him and shook her head. "You're spent, Haesmar," she told him. "Guard our backs for a while. Get some water down you." He grunted in acknowledgement and wrenched his canteen free from his belt.

Baurus looked forlorn as he turned his own canteen upside down. A few lingering drips splashed onto the dark obsidian floor. "Thirsty work, this," he growled, glaring angrily at the burnt corpses he'd left behind him. "Anyone got anything to spare?" he asked hopefully. Heads were shaken all round; there was simply none to spare. Selene walked over and took his canteen, filling it to the brim with magically melted ice before handing it back to him. He smiled gratefully at the unexpected refill then winced as the unexpectedly cold water splashed over his lips.

"Glenroy, Selene, you go up front," ordered Renault, drawing her katana. "We've already wasted enough time. They're only ever going to get more reinforcements." Glenroy squared his shoulders and led his way over to the ramp leading upwards, katana and shield held ready. Selene joined him, glaive held in her right hand, left hand sparkling with magicka ready to be unleashed. As they prepared to advance, the daedra pre-empted them, their footsteps echoing down the ramp before they appeared.

A shimmering, transparent wall sprang up between the Blades and the daedra. Darkly tinted, it did not resist the attacker's passage, but within seconds of passing through it they feel dead without a mark on them. As the more sensible daedra realised that they were charging to their deaths, they frantically attempted to stop, only to find fireballs exploding behind them, throwing them forwards, slamming them into the compatriots and adding to the pile of corpses steadily growing behind the magical wall.

After a few minutes, the daedric force was spent, scattered over the entrance to the passage. Selene dispelled her magic and slumped slightly, breathing heavily. "That amount of drain so rapidly, casting complex spells..." she shook her head. "It takes a lot out of you."

Renault nodded and motioned for her to fall back, taking the half-elf's place herself. The squad moved forward, kicking their way through assorted corpses. From time to time, they glimpsed the spire of magicka anchoring the Sigil Stone in place; they were drawing steadily closer to the Sigillum Sanguis. Resistance was sporadic and weak; clearly, they had already torn through a large number of the Keep's defenders. Eventually, they emerged out onto a ledge curving around the spire of magicka. Directly overhead was the fleshy red floor of the Sigillum Sanguis.

A lone clannfear snorted and pawed at the ground at the sight of them. Glenroy moved swiftly, bashing its head aside with his shield and thrusting upwards into its chest, feeling the dying heart beat frantically against his steel before heaving the corpse off his blade. Hurrying over to the door, the Imperial opened the crack a tiny bit and pressed his eye to the gap. He withdrew his head after a couple of seconds.

"No enemies in the hallway," he reported. "You can be sure they've got some of their best guarding the stone, though. Expect Xivilai and high-ranking Dremora."

Renault grunted. "Selene, how much magicka do you have?" she asked. The battlemage was leaning against the obsidian walls of the tower, her once-lustrous golden hair now crimson-stained and matted to her shoulders and back. She blinked at the question.

"Less than half of my full potential," she answered slowly. "It'll be enough. I hope."

Renault's mouth twisted into a sour grimace before it was forced back into a thin, determined line. "It will be," she told her, hopefully sounding more confident than she felt. The Breton raised her voice slightly, addressing all of them. "The odds are long, yes, but we've come this far. We're Blades. We live to serve the Emperor." She glanced down at her katana, coloured various hues of red for most of its length. "If we all die, then we all fail. That, more than death, should be your motivation to spit in the eye of Dagon today." She turned towards the door, hefting her weapon. "Let's do this."

Glenroy forced the door open and the Knight Captain stepped through, barely waiting a second before marching quickly towards the entrance to the Sigillum Sanguis. At the open doorways, she paused slightly, gesturing for Baurus and Callia to take one while she and Haesmar took the other. They took a second to collect themselves, determination forcing aside any fear, before entering the final stronghold of the enemy.

Immediately, a large fireball was sent roaring towards them from the ledge above. Selene reflected it back at the caster. He dived out of the way in time, but the force of the blast hurled his body into the spire of magicka. There was no time to savour the moment, however; five Dremora and two Xivilai had emerged and were rushing towards the mortal invaders, various wicked-looking weaponry clutched in their expert hands. Sounds of weapons being unsheathed were heard from above; there were more daedra ready to enter the fray within moments.

Baurus stepped up confidently to meet the attack of a Dremora, who tried to fend off Goldbrand by forcing his shield at the weapon as he swung his own katana down in an overhead cleave. Baurus sidestepped the blow and went under the Kynaz's shield, the blazing weapon stabbing through the Dremora's thighs. The weapon came free easily and the Redguard forced it down into his crippled opponent's chest. Hearing a pained grunt, Baurus spun to see Callia staggering back from a Dremora, her shield sporting a considerable dent from the Kynaz's mace. Without hesitation, the Redguard launched himself at the Dremora, Goldbrand cutting through the plate armour on his back and down into his flesh. He crumpled lifelessly to the floor.

Elsewhere, Renault was doggedly fighting another Dremora to a standstill. She'd been appointed Captain of the Imperial Bodyguard several years previously not only because she was excellent with both katana and bow, but also for the essential ability to keep a cool head whatever the circumstances along with a natural affinity for being able to read a situation within seconds. All of these were being put to good work now as she parried another swing for her head and countered with a low thrust. Her blade was knocked aside by the Dremora's shield and he barged forward into her, his heavily muscled, heavily-armoured body sending the more lightly-built Breton staggering back. However, the distance between them now gave Selene the opening she needed, sending lighting coursing through the Dremora before turning back to deal with another rapidly closing the distance with her.

Haesmar had leapt into the daedric ranks with his usual abandon, but swiftly learnt that when fighting elites, his normal crowd-clearing tactics simply would not work. After decapitating a Dremora, he found himself surrounded by Kyn, who continued to appear from the ledge up above, and was lucky to escape with a slash across the ribs as Baurus broke through to rescue him, cutting two Dremora in half. Haesmar back-pedalled rapidly, barely avoiding the battleaxe of a Xivilai who followed him.

Renault ripped her katana free from a summoned clannfear and dashed for the steps leading upwards towards the Sigil Stone, bellowing for the others to follow as best they could. Selene froze a Xivilai and two Dremora solid, clearing the way for the captain, and most of the Blades broke off and followed her. Baurus stayed to the rear, fending off the increasing numbers of daedra. Lesser daedra were now pouring in from below, making the position of the Blades increasingly untenable.

An idea suddenly occurred to Selene, and she rushed the rest of the way up the uneven steps, turning to yell down at the Redguard slowly back up towards her. "Hurry! I'll destroy the way up!" He took the hint and sprinted for the ledge, ignoring the daedra behind him. Selene grunted with the effort as she sent Destruction magic through the obsidian stairs, shattering them. Given a brief respite, she and Baurus turned and sprinted for the final ramps leading to the Sigil Stone as the rest of the daedra below them ran for the second set of stairs.

As Renault started up the ramp, Haesmar abruptly turned and sprinted at the incoming army of Daedra. The slowly-spoken Nord always had been smarter than he looked; he knew that if his comrades were delayed at the Sigil Stone, the daedra coming from their rear would crush them. "Get the stone!" he roared to Renault as he charged towards the seething mass of enemies rushing up the stairs. Bellowing a wordless battle cry, the Knight Brother jumped into them, his weight bowling several over and sending the rest into confusion. Struggling to his feet, Haesmar lay around him with his battleaxe, hacking off limbs, cleaving through bone and armour. A daedroth charged at him, its claws scything deep into his left arm, leaving it hanging by mere threads. As the bloodied, battered Nord attempted to raise his mighty weapon one-handed, a clannfear darted in and ripped through his stomach, tearing into his entrails, beak stabbing. Another clannfear pounced upon his slumped back, bearing him to the ground.

His comrades did not see Haesmar ripped apart, with clannfear squabbling over who would eat his liver as he died in agony. They were too busy concentrating on killing the two Dremora standing back to back in front of the Sigil Stone before reinforcements reached them. With Selene out of magicka, and with Callia watching the ramps behind them, it was left to Baurus, Glenroy and Renault to get around their defences and put them to the sword. As daedra rushed up the ramps, Renault reached out and plucked the Sigil Stone from its anchor. Screaming in rage, several daedra rushed at the victorious Blades before the plane collapsed around them.

After the searing heat of the Deadlands, the cold of the Jerall foothills was a slap in the face to the exhausted Blades, most of whom sank to their knees in the sparse snow that was slowly covering the blasted soil where the Oblivion Gate had stood. Renault was the only one to remain standing; she walked slowly over to lean on a stunted tree, ignoring the bloody prints her boots were leaving in the snow. She knew that most of her squad were bearing wounds – she herself could feel a painful throbbing in her left calf and blood collecting in her boot – but for now, she merely wanted to think for a few seconds. Fortis, Achille, and Haesmar were gone. She looked up at the skeleton of the Gate and sighed. It had been worth it. Their duty had been fulfilled. Cloud Ruler Temple was safe.

For now.

* * *

Caius Nirol was approaching forty. He'd spent twenty-two of those years in the Chorrol City Guard, and had spent nine of those as a Guard Sergeant. He was one of the most experienced in the Guard, and had probably seen the worst of what life had to throw at him. Short and stocky, those who underestimated his height were swiftly undone by his skill with both blades and fists. And now the grizzled, grey-haired Imperial's mood was a tad darker than normal; when he should have been looking forward to a long night in the barracks, he had instead been told to go and tramp around the fringes of the Great Forest. With one of the greenest recruits in the Guard in tow.

Jesan Galenus, overtopping his fellow guardsman by nearly a head, was understandably taking their assignment seriously. "This could be a very real threat, you know," he was saying, as though he had to explain what could be happening to someone who had been a guardsman for longer than Jesan had been alive. "They say they found the body of a Bosmer just north of Bravil, and if there's something similar here..." Jesan let his voice trail off, probably hoping that Caius would finish his sentence for him. He didn't.

The silence trailed on as they walked through the still-wet bushes, heads swivelling as they entered the forest. "They wouldn't send it out here if it wasn't serious, would they?" asked Jesan, possibly sensing his superior's scepticism.

Caius sighed. "It was probably just a farmer spooked by a dead pig," he growled, his voice low and gravelly after years of bellowing orders.

"But what if it wasn't? We could be-" Jesan was cut off mid-flow by Caius's chainmail-clad arm forcing itself across his chest. Wincing and expecting a rebuke, the younger Imperial shot a glance at the Guard Sergeant, only to find him staring at something through the trees.

"We've found something, at least," he said slowly, moving through the bushes towards what had caught his eye. His gauntleted hand crept towards the hilt of his sword as he entered the small clearing, Jesan a step behind him. Both stopped dead. The only sound in the clearing was the pounding of their hearts. Then Jesan turned and bent over, emptying his stomach into the bushes. Caius, horror written deeply into his blunt features, took a few faltering steps towards the centre of the clearing.

The Orc had clearly lived through most, if not all, of his ordeal, given the pained snarl planted on his face, which incidentally was the only part of his body to have any skin left on it. He was hanging by his wrists from an overhanging tree branch, leaving his tormentor access to every part of his body with ease. Most of his bones had been shattered or twisted beyond all hope of repair, and narrow holes pockmarked the body where a slender blade had been driven through and twisted. His genitalia had been ravaged and then forced into his mouth, and where his eyes would normally be, there was only a collection of scars and two hollow sockets. Deep pits in the bone marked where a blade had been scraped across the skull multiple times.

As Caius walked around the body, dazed, noting yet more wounds, his mind struggled to comprehend two questions: _ how_ and _why_? It had to have taken the killer days at least. He'd thought he'd seen the worst the Guard had to throw at him. He had been very, very wrong.

* * *

**A/N: And so ends another chapter. I'm not all that happy with it, and I KNOW it could be better, but the plot will be moving on soon, so that means I can soon get down to writing about something actually important (i.e Sancre Tor). As ever, reviews are valued. If you read this, then it's only a few minutes of your time to review, so leave one. Or more than one. Just know that reviews are appreciated immensely.**


	30. Preparations

**A/N: It's at times like this that I wish some of you anonymous reviewers had accounts here so I could give you proper review replies... that said, eleven reviews for the last chapter are still very much appreciated.**

**Anonymouse: That is correct. I got tired of writing Oblivion Gates, as well. There will be others in this fic - that's inevitable - but hopefully that won't be too much.**

**Random Reader: Yeah, Gorgoth's got some pretty serious mental scarring. Of course, that doesn't excuse the fact that he's willingly done horrendous, henious acts, and... peace? He doesn't want peace. Long-term, I doubt even Gorgoth knows exactly what he wants. It's all short- and medium-term at the moment.**

**nachosforever: Yarp, the Blades would be expected to be better than the average guardsman. However, if you're referring to them as 'monks' (what the bloody hell is a 'mook'?) then they're not actually monks; the Order of Talos are monks, and the Blades sometimes retire into the Order of Talos, but they themselves are the personal guard of the Emperor; they don't worship him.**

**As for these 'strong' characters... don't overestimate them. If Selene went into an Oblivion Gate alone, she would die. If Ilend and Aerin went into a Gate alone, they would die. So far, they've been involved purely in TEAM efforts. Yes, Selene has a lot of magical power, but in the BaS universe, it's not entirely unusual; there'd be Battlemages at the Arcane University and in the Legions both more powerful and more experienced than her. And as for the 'meatshield', Glenroy is one of the best swordsmen in the Blades; hardly a meatshield. Besides, if they tried that again, they'd die, both of them. The Daedra are learning. There WILL be character deaths in this fic. Major ones.**

**And, finally, I'm not trying to justify Gorgoth's actions, and he doesn't even think they need justifying. That encounter will help explain a vendetta he has against a certain someone, and it also explains why he's chosen to be so stoic and emotionally detached.**

**Scytherian Poetry: I agree. Looking back, there were too many filler chapters in this part of BaS... I'll try to avoid that in future. As for Selene, as I said, she's not extraordinarily powerful in the BaS universe; there are probably quite a few battlemages more powerful than her.**

**Duskification: In war, people die, on the good side and the bad. This is just an example. And as for the torture, Gorgoth has done exactly that for a lot less. He's done it sometimes simply because he was ordered to, not even knowing the reason. But, yes, his mother WAS close to him.**

**Now THAT is a long A/N. Well, a lot of good anonymous reviews required it. Keep up the reviewing, people, you know how much I like them.**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty: Preparations**

The crowds who frequented the Imperial City Arena were always appreciative of the sun. In the summer, it could admittedly make the packed stands unbearably hot, but for the most part a sunny day meant that they wouldn't get wet. More importantly, the blood looked better when shining on the sands under a hot sun. On this particular day, the sun was shining brightly, only interrupted briefly by the sparse clouds. Not that any of the dedicated fans and gamblers would ever let something as trivial as the weather get in the way of watching and betting on a good match, especially when The Green Tornado was involved.

He was standing behind the bars in the Yellow Team cage, ready to be unleashed upon the sands that were feeling increasingly like home. The Argonian had long since handed his old raiment back to Agronak, and now wore his custom-made light scale armour. His weapons, however, always had remained the same; twin steel shortswords and various steel throwing knives hanging from belts on his back. The same weapons could be seen in any half-decent blacksmith's anywhere in Tamriel; they were ordinary, common. Their wielder was anything but.

For all the acclaim, and the hero-worship, and the adoration of the crowds, Saliith was growing slightly bored of life in the Arena. Proper challengers were swiftly drying up after he slaughtered them, one after another. Ysabel had come up with the idea of caging animals to fight the Grand Champion, and for a while, this had entertained both the Argonian and the crowds. Yet while the crowds still loved them, these fights were also becoming somewhat predictable. No troll, ogre or minotaur had sufficient intelligence to stand a chance against him once he had figured out how their minds worked. There was, quite simply, too little to challenge him.

It wasn't just the relative ease of the fights; Saliith was all too aware that at the Arena his intended purposes were simple: to make money, and to make other people money, hopefully gaining their admiration along the way. In truth, since he'd killed Hroadis and become Grand Champion, Saliith had been impatient for Gorgoth to summon him. He wanted to fight for something that would actually matter. Fighting the actual enemies of Tamriel gave him a sense of fulfilment that fighting in the Arena could never hope to give. He had already achieved immortality of a kind, but there was some work that was truly never done.

For now, Saliith was willing to use his free time either relentlessly training or making yet more money. At the moment, it was the latter, and Ysabel had informed him that it might actually be some challenge this time. Agronak had confirmed this: The Green Tornado would be facing not one but _three_ minotuars. _One_ had given him a hard time for a few minutes until he figured out its weaknesses; three would be another matter entirely. That familiar surge of excitement and adrenalin was already rushing through the Argonian's body.

In Saliith's entire tenure at the Arena, he'd never heard the announcer change his rhetoric much, and today was no different. The gates screeched down as the fat Imperial flopped back into his seat. Darting out onto the sands, the Argonian drew his twin blades, set his feet firmly, and fixed his gaze on the three minotaurs being forced out into the Arena. They didn't need much more prodding; as soon as they spotted him, all three bellowed in fury, lowered their heads, and charged, sand spurting up in their wake.

The Grand Champion kept his throwing knives in their places; from experience, he knew that they were near-useless against minotaurs unless it hit them in the eye or some other part of their body, but that was hard to achieve. His shortswords were barely any better; their short length meant that, even combined with Saliith's impressive physical strength, they would barely be able to penetrate the solid slabs of thick muscle that covered most of the minotaur's bodies. Of course, his agility meant that he could dance around them to stick his weapons in their vulnerable areas, but that would be a lot harder with two others attempting to rip him apart.

One minotaur let out an ear-splitting roar and pushed itself onwards, swinging a massive fist at Saliith. The Argonian sidestepped and slashed with his left shortsword, leaving a long cut on the minotaur's thigh. It completely ignored the wound – maybe it hadn't even felt it – as it staggered forward, overbalancing, frantically trying to stay on its feet as well as turning back towards Saliith at the same time. The Argonian had already darted forward and rolled between the other two minotuars, whose attempts to kick him merely led to them kicking each other. Each giving the other a savage glare, they turned, to find their antagonist out of sight.

He was back soon enough. After sheathing one of his blades, he took the other in both hands and forced it with all his strength up into the minotaur's back, grunting with the effort as the beast's flesh resisted the steel. The minotaur bellowed in pain and rage and charged forward, away from the Grand Champion. Saliith dug his heels into the ground and pulled back on his blade, managing to wrench it from the gaping wound. The other two came to the aid of their wounded companion, swinging at Saliith with gusto. He darted back, their lumbering movements pathetically slow in comparison to the lizard's swift action.

The wounded minotaur was back alongside his companions, ignoring the blood dripping down his back and onto the sands. Saliith jinked left then right, watching them jerk around, attempting to follow his movements. One grew impatient and lowered his head, charging at the Green Tornado with horns lowered. Saliith firmly planted his feet and drove his shortsword into the front of the beast's skull, the sheer momentum of its charge sending them both crashing to the ground. Saliith hopped up again momentarily, leaving his shortsword embedded between the dead minotaur's eyes; he wouldn't be getting it free again any time soon. The crowd made their appreciation clear, their roars drowning out the minotaurs completely.

Unfazed by the death of their fellow, the other two minotuars circled Saliith, snorting and pawing at the ground as they bided their time. Ignoring the urgings of the crowd, the Argonian was content to wait; the wound he'd given one of the minotaurs was still bleeding, and it was clearly weakening. It realised this and started lumbering towards Saliith with fists drawn back, ready to unleash hammer blows that would crack his skull. Saliith crouched, wary; with only one sword, his potential to cause damage was even more limited, but with both hands on the blade he could apply more power to any attack.

Lowering its horned head, the minotaur charged, followed closely by its companion. Saliith waited for the opportune moment then leapt, vaulting over the back of the onrushing beast and using his momentum to stab at the other minotaur. However, the angle was wrong and the steel blade merely sliced its snout open. Rolling to his feet upon impact with the ground, Saliith was quickly turning to gauge whether he had another opening. He hadn't. The minotaur with the cut snout was already rounding on him, bellowing in rage. In the stands, the watching fans and gamblers were on the edges of their seats.

Discarding all sense of self-preservation – if it had ever had any in the first place – the minotaur charged once again, a lunge with its head and upper body parallel to the ground. Saliith rolled to the side and flipped up as the beast tore past him, forcing the tip of his blade into its path. He controlled the resistance and stood his ground as the blade cut open the minotaur's flank from shoulder to hip. Ignoring its roar of pain, the Argonian turned to deflect the other minotaur's swing, his entire arm shaking from the force of the impact. Taking a step back to rebalance himself, Saliith darted forward again and rammed his blade in under the minotaurs armpit, feeling the shortsword slide on a rib before he forced it back out.

Now bleeding from two deep wounds, the minotaur staggered backwards for a few steps before straightening. Saliith was already turning to attack the other minotaur, his blood-soaked sword flicking the hot liquid across the Arena as he feinted left and right. The crowd made their appreciation known. Lunging for the Argonian's head, the minotaur gave Saliith the opening he needed. He spun around the befuddled beast and leapt onto its back, driving his blade deep in the back of its head. Managing to extract the blade before his fallen opponent hit the ground, Saliith rolled to his feet just in time to duck under another blow from its wounded companion.

Slowed and drained from the blood leaking from its two wounds, the minotaur was able to turn in time to repel the dogged Argonian, who once again sank his sword into its flesh, cutting through the muscle and deep into its back. Pulling it out, Saliith was slow in stepping back and felt the fury of the beast's riposte; a fist slammed into his ribcage, throwing him to the sands and knocking the wind out of him. A concerned gasp arose from the crowds, but The Green Tornado was lucky; at full strength, that blow would have broken his ribs, but in its weakened state the minotaur's strength had only sufficed to bruise them. He was up and dancing away within seconds.

The crippled minotaur staggered around, helpless to respond to Saliith's slashing and stabbing, until it finally succumbed to its injuries and fell to its knees. Quickly darting in and slitting its throat, the Argonian felt a relieved sigh pass through his teeth as the stands erupted in cheers and the announcer jumped to his feet. That fight had drained him far more than his last few had. He slowly walked over and retrieved his other sword from the skull of the minotaur with some difficulty. That done, he headed back down the Yellow Team tunnel, absently giving the seething crowd a few waves on the way.

Submerging himself in the Basin of Renewal, Saliith sighed as the caked minotaur blood slid off his blades, scales, and armour, ebbing away into nothingness as the Basin's enchantment got to work. His bruised ribs healed and he was left to relax as the enchanted water filtered through his gills. After a few seconds of indulgence, the Argonian sighed again and dragged himself out of the Basin. As he stood stooped with hands on knees, blinking the water out of his eyes, a familiar pair of boots swam into view. Saliith straightened and looked up into the face of the Blademaster, who was nodding slightly in appreciation.

"Three minotaurs at once," he muttered, jingling a large bag of gold in one pale green hand. "Not bad." Saliith plucked it from the air as the half-Orc tossed it to him before stuffing it into his pocket. "Unfortunately for the crowd, we've run out of creatures for you to kill, and there's not exactly anyone eager for you to arrange their guts over the sands," continued Agronak, a hint of a smirk creeping onto his face. "Looks like you might be out of work for a while."

Saliith shrugged. "I've got gold pouring out of my ears," he rasped. "And I think I'll have to step up my training regime. It's getting too easy right now."

Agronak snorted. "I remember saying that a while back. Eventually, my entire life was dedicated to training for a challenge that never came." He placed a hand on Saliith's shoulder. "Make sure you leave enough room for something else," advised the Blademaster. He turned on his heel and left to find Ysabel, probably to inform her once again of the limitations of capturing wild animals to use in the Arena. Saliith was left alone to watch the enchanted water slowly drip from his body onto the stained floor of the Bloodworks.

He walked through the maelstrom of swinging weapons and sparring gladiators, returning the handful of greetings he received with short nods. Some of the other fighters had become hangers-on of a kind, hoping to pick up a few tips, only to find that this new Grand Champion was even less obliging than the old one. Saliith did not care for the hopeful glances of those lesser gladiators, hoping to pick up some advice that would aid them down the path which would end with them being smeared over the Arena by their old teacher.

Climbing out of the Bloodworks into the late morning sunlight always made him blink several times as his eyes struggled to adapt quickly to the change. Several fans were leaving from the stands, and the inevitable cheers and tokens of appreciation were sent his way. Aware that most would not recognise him on the street were it not for his weapons and armour – most other races couldn't see much distinction between individual Argonians – his response was simply to give a vague nod in their direction before heading off to his normal training area.

A flicker of bright yellow on the edge of his vision caught his eye, and the Argonian spun to face that damned Bosmer as he squealed and leapt for his hero, hoping to hug his ankles and kiss his feet. Instead, he got a foot in the mouth and several broken teeth. Saliith backed off hastily before his fan could recover, disappearing into the bushes. He emerged out the other side and walked to the paved, columned area that was his normal place for training, despite the numerous fans who could gawk at him. Fortunately, most had the sense not to bother him while training.

Nodding in greeting to the two young Argonians leaning against the pillars, Saliith unbuckled his sword belt and turned to put it down with the blades leaning against a pillar, but it was whipped out of his hands by Neesha before he could make a move. She gave a him a small grin as she laid the weapons carefully down; there were times when Saliith was worried that her adoration might make him softer. "Go and round up the usual suspects," he told her. She nodded and scampered off to find the men Saliith used for training, tail whipping from side to side. Turning upon hearing a swishing sound, the Green Tornado barely caught a wooden practice sword just before it would have whacked him in the face. Huzei was wearing an impish grin. Saliith smirked and nodded to another nearby practice blade. His fan walked over and picked it up, his grin widening as he clenched his fist around it, revealing rows of jagged teeth.

Huzei was learning quickly. He was shorter than average – about five foot seven – and looked scrawny, making his claimed age of eighteen questionable at times, but he was a natural with a sword in his hand. The Argonian had contemplated joining the Arena more than once, but Saliith warned him against it; despite finding the siblings' adoration for him frustrating at times, he was starting to feel a kind of genuine affection for the pair, and he didn't want to be responsible for the headstrong Huzei charging out onto the sands unprepared and getting killed. They could use the money, though; they tried to hide it, but he knew that whatever money they got from betting on him was spent on their mother's medical treatments. He forced them to accept payment for their services, but they had little else to gamble, and they'd never mentioned a father. So he found himself supporting him the best he could, given that their pride wouldn't allow him to do much else. It felt more fulfilling than most of what he did in the Arena.

"OK, we've got a few minutes, I'd say," Saliith informed him. "Let's work on your defence. You leave yourself open a lot." Huzei nodded, his yellow eyes focusing on Saliith's wooden sword, holding his own ready to block or parry. "And don't try to pass this on to your sister; we don't want her accidentally poking your eye out," joked the Grand Champion. Huzei was a good learner, but an atrocious teacher. His sister was willing to learn and had picked up the knack of swordplay easily enough, but only after Saliith had started teaching her himself.

Huzei smirked and waited for Saliith's attack. As he moved in to test his student's defences, the Grand Champion realised that he was getting a sense of satisfaction from this that he rarely felt any more on the sands of the Arena. He was actually doing something constructive. And if merely training his young fan made him feel this way, then he sincerely hoped that Gorgoth wouldn't take too much longer to call upon him.

* * *

To the untrained eye, Cheydinhal had not changed much. However, someone as experienced as Gorgoth picked out the signs immediately. The double guard posted on the gates and in the watch towers, their increased alertness, the tense atmosphere pervading everywhere. This apprehension was reflected in the ominous dark clouds rolling overhead, summoned by fast winds. Cheydinhal was preparing for the inevitable moment when an Oblivion Gate opened outside its walls. It would be hard to prepare for such a thing, but Ulrich Leland was doing his best to whip his normally corrupt, lazy guardsmen into shape. In Gorgoth's opinion, it would take months for most of the Cheydinhal City Guard to be ready for combat.

He was not there to comment on the Guard's lack of discipline and ability, however. He was there to get work. Walking up the steps to the Guildhall entrance, his long legs taking them three at a time, he swung the double doors open and entered. The lower level was deserted apart from a somewhat lonely Imperial Associate, who pointed him upstairs when asked where Burz was. Ignoring the screeching protest of the stairs as he climbed them, Gorgoth reached the top level of the Guild, where he came across Burz belting on his armour.

"I take it you want a job?" grunted the surly Guardian. Without waiting for an answer, he continued on, buckling on his mace belt as he spoke. "Well, good. I'm drowning in contracts and I don't have any sodding boots to shove em on to. You can take this one." The Orc stomped over to a table and wrenched a small scroll loose from the pile of paperwork. "Four fugitives broke out of a prison near Bravil. Typical of that shoddy place, they're managing to terrorise it." Burz snorted in contempt. Gorgoth shared his sentiments. "Anyway, you're to go down there and root them out. Any questions?"

"Why isn't the Bravil branch handling this?" asked Gorgoth.

Burz barked a mirthless laugh. "You expect that collection of witless layabouts and drunkards to do anything useful this decade?" he growled. He slammed his meaty fist down on the table. "No, this job needs doing by someone competent. You'll have quite a while to do it in; they're not going anywhere fast. You up to it?"

Gorgoth snorted. "Need you ask?" he inquired, plucking the contract from Burz's hands. A small smirk played over the Guardian's bluff face before his normal surly expression returned.

"Well, Bravil's not exactly just across the road," he rumbled, slapping Gorgoth on the shoulder before looking back down at the paperwork covering his desk. "Get moving, Defender."

Gorgoth paused at the head of the stairs. "I wasn't aware of my promotion."

Burz shook his head, a wry grin attempting to make its way onto his face. "He was hung over, Gorgoth. You can't really blame him for not informing you at the time." He snorted and waved his fellow Orc away. "Go. Those convicts aren't going to hang themselves."

Gorgoth left the Guildhall, stuffing the contract under his armour and into one of his pockets. Glancing up at the clouds, he resigned himself to not knowing the exact hour; his dormant hunger – it was hours since his breakfast by the side of the road - told him that it was a while yet before noon, but his stomach had lost most of its reliability since Azani Blackheart had cut it open two and a half years ago. Considering for a second, Gorgoth grunted and started off in the direction of the Newlands Lodge.

Easing himself down into a sturdy chair, Gorgoth had barely ordered a meal from Dervera Romalen when a Redguard approached his table. As the place was barely half-full, Gorgoth was about to suggest his new companion left him alone when he noted the man's Akaviri katana. The Blade leaned in close to pass on his message: "Our guest has finished the second part of his book. Your presence is required immediately. Word has been sent to others." His job done, the Redguard shoved back his chair and stood, turning to leave.

Gorgoth nodded and turned his attention to the tankard brought to him by a Dunmer barmaid. It was empty. He looked up just in time to see her sink a dagger into the back of the Blade's skull. Blood spurted over her grey hands as the blade punched through his neck and up into his brain.

Leaping to his feet, Gorgoth slammed a fist into the Dunmer's torso, sending her sprawling across the room into another table. Catching the Redguard before he hit the floor, Gorgoth pulled the dagger from his head and sent powerful healing magic through his body. Nothing happened. The wound had been instantly fatal. Gently placing the corpse on its back, Gorgoth removed the katana from the Redguard's sword belt and drew it before advancing on the Dunmer, who had forced herself to her feet and had pulled out another dagger.

"Am I going to have to kill you insidious vermin in every city I come across?" growled Gorgoth, his voice harsh.

"We are everywhere," hissed the Dark Elf, clutching her broken rib with her free hand. "You cannot look everywhere at once..." her voice trailed off, the thin trickle of blood making her smile look even more malevolent.

A swishing in the air behind him alerted Gorgoth to danger, and he spun. The dagger intended to embed itself in the back of his skull instead only sliced the back of his neck open. He was still holding the scabbard of the katana in his off hand, so he swung it in a vicious arc towards the second Dunmer's head, the reinforced leather emitting a sharp _crack_ as it connected with her temple. She collapsed into a heap, leaving the Orc free to spin and impale the other Dark Elf charging at him with dagger raised to strike. It dropped from her lifeless fingers seconds before Gorgoth pushed her off the borrowed katana.

Turning back to the unconscious Dunmer, aware of every remaining eye in the Lodge on him – several patrons had already fled – Gorgoth drew back the katana and forced it through her chest, watching emotionlessly as her blood sprayed over the blade and his armour. Withdrawing the weapon, he mechanically ripped a strip of cloth from the woman's dress and cleaned it before returning it to its scabbard. Having healed the cut on his neck, he was in the process of slowly closing the Blade's eyes when the City Guard, led by a long-haired Breton captain, burst into the Lodge with weapons drawn.

"All right, big bastard, what happened here?" barked Ulrich Leland, bearing down on Gorgoth with his claymore firmly gripped in both hands. "I swear I'll put you down for the rest of your wretched life if..." he trailed off as Gorgoth stood and glared down at him.

"This Redguard was a Blade," he rumbled. "He was delivering a message of vital importance to me. Those two-" he gestured to the bodies of the Dunmer "- were Mythic Dawn agents. Need I say more?"

Leland snorted as he took in the scene, his eyes lingering on the sheathed katana in Gorgoth's hands and the dai-katana on his back. "Even if that _is_ true," he started, the sneer evident in his voice. "You'll still have to-" Gorgoth cut him off.

"I am a Blade. I carry the Emperor's authority. To impede me now would mean you answer to him when he takes his throne." The Orc leaned forward, his icy glare ensnaring the Breton Guard Captain. "I am leaving. Do not try to stop me. And bury him with honour, if you can manage that." The last sentence was accompanied with a jerking of his head towards the fallen, nameless Blade. Leland had no time to argue as Gorgoth roughly pushed past him, sliding the dead Redguard's katana through his belt as he left the Lodge. The fugitives in Bravil could wait for now. Dealing with Dagon could not.

* * *

Clouds covering the sky from horizon to horizon and the cold, biting wind did not help Primo Varius's temper. The Imperial Guardsman had spent most of his shift quietly fuming about the news he'd received a few hours ago back in the barracks. His normal respectful nod for citizens going through the gates from the Arena to the Market District had turned into surly glances as he and his colleague, Felicia Antonius, kept watch for criminals and disturbances. Just like most of the time, the duty was boring, only serving to fuel Primo's anger. Finally, Felicia – his friend for most of the year she'd been in the Legion - grew tired of his snapped monosyllabic responses to her general comments.

"For Stendarr's sake, Primo, what _happened_?" she asked, throwing an exasperated glance across the gap between their positions either side of the gate. The cheek guards of their helmets lent anonymity to both of them, but that look still managed to convey her frustration.

"I don't have a bloody clue," growled Primo, unconsciously clenching and unclenching his fist on on the hilt of his longsword. "I just got told that my transfer application was denied. No fucking reason, just a bloody bit of paper. No talk, no nothing." The Imperial pursed his lips to spit onto the paving stones, then thought better of it; on top of his present woes, he didn't want to be dragged before a court martial for bringing disrepute to the Legion.

"But you're a good soldier; you've got experience and a good record," Felicia told him. "There's no reason to turn you down, given that they're not exactly swimming in soldiers in the field. Who processed your application?"

Primo put his head back and closed his eyes. "I think it was... Servillus," he muttered after some thought. It wasn't easy to attach something as personal as a name to the administrative officers of a legion, most of whom seemed to have all personality drained from them by the paperwork.

Felicia gasped. "Ticemius Servillus?" she asked, brown eyes wide under her helmet.

"I think so," replied Primo, shrugging. "Why? His name plucks at a memory, but nothing more..."

"You slept with his sister," Felicia told him flatly.

Primo grunted as though one of the nearby gladiators had punched him in the stomach. "That... bastard," he grated. "It was only... I didn't mean..." He snarled and slammed his fist into the palm of his shield hand, before restoring some semblance of the Legion discipline. His mind didn't desert him despite his frustration, however. "How do _you_ know I slept with her?" he asked his comrade, narrowing his eyes.

She sighed and rolled her eyes before stepping over to lay her hand on his arm, after making sure there was no traffic likely to come through any time soon. "Primo, she slept with half the damned barracks," she told him. "It's not much of a secret who she sleeps with. How else did you think Ticemius knew? She's not likely to tell her own brother."

The Imperial's face contorted into a grimace. "Then why is he singling me out?" he growled. Prejudice always had angered him; having grown up in Leyawiin, he'd seen what it produced: countless destitute Argonians and Khajiit.

Felicia sighed again and leaned back against the stone wall beside him. At times like this, he was reminded how tall she was; she could almost look him levelly in the eyes. "Because, Primo, you're the only one in our company wanting to transfer to the field," she told him as she slowly walked back to her position opposite him. He detected bitterness in her voice; no surprise there. She'd been disappointed about him leaving ever since he'd made his intentions clear. He couldn't blame her; there were no others in their section that were good for much conversation, which was one of the most reliable ways of treating boredom.

"Well, that's me scuppered, then," he muttered angrily. "I'll bet you're secretly happy."

Felicia grunted. She had told him she wouldn't stand in his way, but he knew her well enough to know that he was right. "I'll admit that, but you know I'd never wish boredom upon anyone." She snorted. "Besides, if your face is going to resemble a thundercloud for the rest of your stay in the garrison, I'd be happier with you gone."

"I'm not _that_ bad," retorted Primo. "Well, all right, a bit..."

She smirked, flicking a stray strand of black hair away from her face. "Hey if you want to go and... patrol a specific area for disturbances, I'll cover for you." A significant wink reinforced her suggestion.

Primo's eyebrows shot up as he gave her a sideways glance. "Really?"

"Go on, you need something other than shit coming your way for once today."

Primo smiled for the first time in hours. "Thanks," he told her, directing a grateful grin her way as he descended the stone steps to the Arena grounds. "Remind me to buy you a beer after our shift is over." A laugh was his response as he headed directly for the area where the Grand Champion trained. Of course, he would be keeping an eye out for disturbances. In a _very_ specific area. He always found it therapeutic to watch the Green Tornado train. He'd made a hundred drakes by betting on the Argonian while off-duty, and his fighting style was great to watch.

The clack of wooden practice swords meant that the training was in full swing, and as Primo approached a small smile spread over his face before he forced it back to the neutral expression drilled into all Guardsmen. Four Imperials, a Breton and a Dark Elf were attacking the Green Tornado simultaneously; one more than last time. Apparently, the Argonian offered bonuses in addition to their usual pay if they managed to land a blow that would have been fatal with real steel on him. So far, he'd never paid that bonus. Distribution of his wealth and the protection of his normal weapons was overseen by those two Argonians who seemed to have appointed themselves his official servants and hangers-on.

Despite being outnumbered six to one, the Grand Champion appeared to be on top of things, and Primo started slowly walking back and forth along a nearby path, ostensibly appearing to patrol the area. In fact, the action in the training area never left his peripheral vision. In the short time since his arrival, two of the Imperials had already sustained 'fatal' blows; they were lying as if dead, providing the obstruction they would on a normal battlefield. It was training that Primo could appreciate and watch for entertainment, unlike the incessant drilling and tight manoeuvres of the Legion.

The Imperial noticed other passers-by looking on unreservedly at the fighters. He couldn't blame them; it was some spectacle. The Dunmer went down after receiving a practice sword across his ribs, a blow delivered with such force that it might just have broken a few of them. The Green Tornado's speed and agility were undoubtedly his greatest weapons, but that was not to say he was weak; some opponents had died after underestimating his considerable physical strength. Some of the watchers gasped in appreciation as the Grand Champion backflipped to put some more distance between him and the two remaining Imperials and the Breton. Primo himself was keeping the guardsman's mask of neutrality firmly in place.

Ducking under the Breton's lunge, the Green Tornado threw himself to the floor, supporting himself with one arm, and twirled his entire body, knocking the legs of all three opponents from under them. Flipping to his feet, the Argonian stabbed one of the Imperials through the chest – leaving a nasty-looking scratch – and kicked the Breton in the face, slamming his head back down onto the paving slabs. Despite himself, Primo winced at the impact; a blow like that could fracture a man's skull. At this distance, he couldn't tell if the Breton had been knocked out or merely stunned, but he was out of the fight for certain.

Alone against the Grand Champion, the last remaining Imperial never stood a chance. The Argonian knocked aside his defence with contemptuous ease and kicked him in the head before slashing at his stomach. He fell to the ground, clutching at his stomach in an attempt to hold in the guts that would be spilling out of the wound if it had been a real fight. The victorious gladiator, breathing heavily, took a step back and looked around, before nodding in satisfaction. His fallen opponents began dragging themselves slowly to their feet, wincing over their bruises. The Breton stayed down.

As the Grand Champion's two Argonian fans handed out payment to the fighters, Primo started to walk over, fully intending to analyse the severity of the Breton's wound. There were no obvious healers nearby, and he wasn't about to let someone die on his watch from a broken skull. The Green Tornado glanced at him with something approaching apprehension as the Imperial knelt beside the Breton, but Primo wasn't about to clap him in irons. For one thing, the Breton had volunteered, and arresting the Grand Champion just outside the Arena would certainly spark a riot.

The Breton was breathing shallowly, the rise and fall of his bare torso hardly noticeable. Blood dribbled from his mouth from where the Argonian's kick had broken a few teeth, but Primo was more interested in the back of the skull. Gently lifting the man's head, he was about to start probing when heavy footsteps reverberated around the area. Seconds later, a massive Orc in battered plate armour knelt on the other side of the Breton, roughly taking his head from Primo's hand and sending healing magic from his fingertips to the Breton's body. A blue light enveloped him and his eyes flickered open, staring blankly up at the sky for a few seconds before refocusing. One of the Imperials came and helped him to his feet, leaving Primo to straighten and take his first look at the Orc.

"Gorgoth," he said in greeting, inclining his head slightly.

"Guardsman Varius," replied Gorgoth, responding in kind. Primo was slightly surprised that the Hero of Kvatch had remembered the name of a lowly guardsman, but he guessed that the Orc was good with names; after all, he had commanded men of his own. Having returned the greeting, Gorgoth was already turning away to talk to the Green Tornado. Primo was better than most at reading Argonian expressions, and he would say that the lizard looked... eager at the mere sight of Gorgoth.

"Good to see you again, Gorgoth," rasped the Argonian, clasping the Orc's hand. "I was wondering if you'd ever show up."

"The translation took longer than I thought it would," responded Gorgoth. "I would always appreciate a warrior of your calibre at my side, Saliith." Primo raised an eyebrow; it was the first time he'd heard the real name of the Grand Champion being spoken.

"What needs doing?" asked Saliith, looking around cautiously. Primo adopted an expression of professional indifference, not easy to maintain when he was standing merely two feet away from them. His two fans were still handing out his money, and the fighters were retrieving their equipment from where they'd left it. None appeared to be listening, but both of them lowered their voices anyway.

"I don't know exactly, but I get the sense that it will require something dangerous. As would be expected." Gorgoth grunted quietly. "Are you ready to move today? Riding hard, we can reach Cloud Ruler by tomorrow night."

"Today?" Saliith snorted. "I can be off within the hour. That good enough?" The Argonian seemed even more eager now. Interesting.

"Perfect," rumbled Gorgoth. He abruptly turned to Primo, hand on the hilt of his dai-katana. "Blades business," he told the Imperial. "Do not repeat what you have heard." Primo straightened and nodded, giving an inch-perfect salute. Gorgoth nodded in return and turned on his heel, accompanying Saliith over to where his fans were collecting the practice swords. Primo remained where he was for a moment, then started marching off back to his post. He'd never dealt with the Blades before, and he guessed that now wasn't exactly a good time to start crossing them, given the fact that Oblivion Gates were opening all through an Empire without an Emperor.

He nodded to Felicia as he retook his post. The clock in the barracks would show the truth, but he estimated that they had about an hour left on their shift. He noticed that Felicia was attempting – and failing – to hide a broad grin. "What's so funny?" he demanded.

"This dispatch came for you," she told him, holding out a sealed note. Seeing his look of consternation, she quickly shook her head. "Don't worry, I told them you were away investigating a disturbance. You're fine." He sighed in grateful; relief and took the parchment.

Turning it over in his hands, he stared at the seal of the Imperial Legion – a red diamond with the Imperial Dragon in the centre – before breaking it with his thumb and opening the parchment. As his eyes scanned the text, a broad smile slowly spread over his face. By the time he'd finished reading, he was beaming. Felicia chuckled as he rolled up the message. "I assume it was good news, then?"

In response, Primo thrust the parchment at her, turning to keep watch while she read it. He was finding it increasingly hard to keep that mandatory look of neutrality. "'Report immediately to Centurion Titus Sextus for duties in the field Legions'" she read, glancing across at him. "They're reactivating some of the old forts?" She appeared to be asking the question to herself; it was right there in black and white. "Some of them haven't seen use in centuries... well, good luck at Fort Sutch," Felicia told him, smiling brightly as she handed the letter back. "'immediately' means get to him as quickly as possible, I think."

"Yeah, that would make sense," replied Primo distractedly, glancing around. "You can handle the rest of the shift on your own?" he asked.

"Course I can," she said, smiling. "You run along to the centurion now. Have fun in the Legion. Good luck." She offered him her hand.

"Yeah, good luck here as well," responded Primo, taking her hand and shaking it firmly. "I'll be seeing you again soon, hopefully," he remarked. "I don't want to have to wait too long to buy you that beer. You might charge interest." As she laughed, he withdrew his hand and saluted before walking off through the doors to the Market District. He'd have to go back to the Prison to report.

As the guardsman slowed to nod to his comrades on the other side of the massive gate, two figures brushed past him. Primo recognised the Hero of Kvatch and the Green Tornado, who had attached a variety of items to his sword belt, including various potions and a couple of longer-bladed knives. Both of them looked ready for anything; such was the nature of Blades business. Primo opened his mouth to wish them good luck, but then thought better of it. They didn't need it. He was a generic guardsmen; they were heroes who could actually make a difference.

* * *

"It's good to be back," observed Ilend as he and Aerin stabled their horses in the Cloud Ruler Temple stable. He and Aerin had ridden hard after leaving merely half an hour after the messenger from the Blades had informed them of the completed translation. After enduring heavy rain for most of the journey, they had awoken to clear skies that morning and were riding into the Temple two hours later. The presence of Vorguz in the stables told them all they needed to know. According to the ostler, the stallion hadn't been there for long.

"Back here in the cold, wet, miserable world of the north?" asked Aerin sarcastically, arching an eyebrow as she removed Firebrand's saddle.

"It's good because it means that we'll be helping to bring Dagon down," responded Ilend, slamming his fist into his palm. "It's hard to hold someone to account for the destruction of your city then do nothing about it for weeks, Aerin. I've been impatient to get cracking for a while now."

The Wood Elf snorted. "I can tell," she muttered. "You _have_ been going on about it for most of the time on the road." She rolled her eyes and removed her cloak, slinging it over her shoulder as she strode off in the direction of the Great Hall. Ilend smirked and followed her, removing his own cloak. His newly-acquired Skingrad Guard shield hung from his back in exactly the same way his old Kvatch Watch shield had. It felt good there.

As the doors swung shut behind them, the two almost walked into Gorgoth. "It is good to see that you made it," he rumbled, nodding to each of them in greeting. "We will be leaving early tomorrow. Stock up on potions should you need to."

"Any hint of where we're going, big guy?" Aerin asked him, her expression a mixture of pleasure and apprehension. Pleasure at seeing Gorgoth again – she did like him, somewhat – and apprehension due to the fact she still knew so little about him. He still scared her sometimes.

"Ask Jauffre for the full details," responded Gorgoth. "I'll say that it is certain that we will see action. A lot of it. Stock up on arrows." He clapped her on the shoulder, staggering her, before continuing on his way out of the hall. "I need to see Gnaeus. We'll talk later."

Aerin fingered the arrows in her two quivers. "Well, I've got the sixty that Hassildor gave me. Reckon they'll be enough?" she asked Ilend as they continued into the Great Hall, moving towards Jauffre as soon as they located him standing by the fireplace, looking at the rows of katanas displayed on the walls. He seemed to have aged since they last saw him; his shoulders were slightly slumped, and the his wrinkles seemed deeper. Shadows under his eyes and an exhausted expression made him look like he was swiftly approaching the end of his long life. The Breton turned as they approached.

"Ah, good, you're here," he sighed, easing himself slowly down into a chair. The Grandmaster could still fight effectively enough at the moment, but that didn't mean he felt like doing it any time soon. "I get the feeling that we're going to need everyone we can for this one, and I simply cannot spare any of the garrison due to... recent losses." A grimace distorted Jauffre's face for a moment.

"You've taken recent casualties in the war?" asked Ilend, glancing around before easing himself down onto a chair opposite the Breton. Aerin elected to stand close to the fireplace.

"Fortis Denian, Achille Meric, and Haesmar were all killed closing an Oblivion Gate," intoned Jauffre, waving his arm towards the katanas on display. "Achel was more recently killed by Mythic Dawn agents." He sighed and ran a hand over his face. "With luck, this war will soon be over. I certainly hope so."

"Well... what are we doing about it right now?" inquired Aerin, flexing her hands as the fire warmed them.

"It would appear that Dagon likes balance," started Jauffre, a wry grin plucking at the corner of his mouth momentarily. "We needed the blood of a daedra. Now we need the blood of a Divine."

"Judging by the fact Gorgoth said we'd see action, I doubt they're generous enough to gift us with their blood too often," remarked Aerin.

"You're right; there's only one option." Jauffre leaned forward, his intense gaze taking in both of them. "You need to go to Sancre Tor and retrieve the armour of Tiber Septim," he told them. Noting their blank looks, he continued. "The ruins of Sancre Tor were once a site of pilgrimage, but none have gone there for centuries since its corruption..." Jauffre's face darkened. "The blood of Talos is on his armour, deep within the catacombs. I know little more than that."

"Yeah... a lot to go on," muttered Aerin sarcastically, casting her eyes skyward as she turned to face the fire.

"I didn't write that damned ritual," growled Jauffre. "If you want to blame anyone for slogging across half of Cyrodiil to fight your way through an evil-infested old city, then blame Dagon."

"Oh, I'll be blaming Dagon easily enough," snarled Ilend, reaching down and toying with the hilt of his sword. "Just like I've blamed him for everything else he's done in this damned war. Fighting my way through Sancre Tor?" The Imperial stood. "Just point me in the right direction."

"I wish I had two hundred just like you, Ilend," grunted Jauffre, remaining in his seat. "You'll be leaving tomorrow. Take the time to do whatever you need." Ilend nodded and gave a half-salute before departing. Aerin swiftly caught up with him after tipping her invisible hat to Jauffre.

"So, what now?" she asked Ilend, noting the fact that they were heading in the direction of the East Barracks.

"It's a military fortress, Aerin," he responded as he pushed open the door to the barracks. "There's really not a lot else to do except eat, sleep, and train, though there is a well-stocked library if you're interested."

Aerin's response died on her tongue as she noticed Gorgoth and Gnaeus standing together, the Imperial's stance impatient as the Orc flicked through a bundle of parchment. "This is good information of importance, Gnaeus," he was saying, his heavy accent and low voice making it difficult to distinguish the words at range. "You'll need to take this to Jauffre. He needs to know about this army within the borders of Cyrodiil."

Gnaeus spluttered in outrage. "Why _me_, greenskin?" he growled, glaring up at the much larger warrior-shaman. "_You_ were the one who sent me to-"

Gorgoth cut him off. "Because, Gnaeus, Jauffre is a lot more willing to trust you than he is me."

The rest of the conversation went unheard by Ilend and Aerin as they were distracted by a meaty, chainmail-clad hand coming down on each of their shoulders. Spinning, they were confronted with a heavily-armoured Orc who was looking them over with interest. Not tall for an Orc – he was barely an inch taller than Ilend – but he was at least as wide as both of them put together. "You must be Ilend Vonius and Aerin, the archer," he mused, rubbing his chin. His voice was as deep as he was broad.

"And who might you be?" questioned Aerin, folding her arms as she stared up into the Orc's face. His amber eyes held more warmth than Gorgoth's, but that wasn't saying much.

"Lurog gro-Brugh of Manruga," rumbled the Orc. "I am an old comrade of Gorgoth's. It pleased me to see him alive, though his circumstances took me by surprise."

"Yeah... ya wouldn't exactly expect an Orc like him ta be the last, best hope of Tamriel, would ya?" snorted Aerin, looking over in Gorgoth's direction and shaking her head.

"No, you wouldn't," agreed Ilend, scratching his chin. "He's not exactly your stereotypical hero. Not with that... demeanour of his." He made a wiggling motion with his hands as if to physically demonstrate Gorgoth's 'demeanour'.

As Lurog responded, Aerin drifted away from them, nodding to Gnaeus as he passed and receiving a grunt in return. Gorgoth had walked out of a door into the courtyard and was standing on the edge of the battlements, staring at something in his hand. Aerin approached him, shivering slightly in the cold, and was about to speak when her gaze fell upon what he was holding.

It was a large gold ring, thick and simple in construction. Wide enough to fit through both her thumbs, it was clearly made for an Orc, but that was not what drew Aerin's attention. The dark red stone in the centre of the golden band depicted what seemed to be an armoured fist clenching a mace, raised high above the out-of-sight wielder's head. As she stepped closer, Aerin frowned as she watched the reflections of the light in the stone seem to _ripple_ somehow, despite Gorgoth's hand remaining solid as a rock. Before she could get a better look, Gorgoth's fist closed around the ring and he pushed it back into his wallet. He spoke without turning around: "Speak."

Aerin almost asked to see the ring again, but at the last moment thought better of it. "What... what kind of opposition can we expect in Sancre Tor," she asked, thinking quickly.

Gorgoth turned and regarded her levelly. "You just asked me a sensible question, Aerin," he rumbled. "Either there is something wrong, or you have learnt a lot in the time we have been apart."

Aerin's mouth dropped open, the flush spreading over her cheeks a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and the cold. "Maybe I have, big guy," she told him. "I _did_ close an Oblivion Gate, ya know." She thrust her hands onto her hips and stared defiantly up at him, challenging him to refute her point.

"Yes, I heard," grunted Gorgoth, unmoved. "You did good work there, from what the messenger said. However, three of you barely made it out, of the nine that went in. That is a high casualty rate. Unsustainable."

Aerin snorted. "We saved Skingrad!" she exclaimed.

"At a high cost in good soldiers. Dagon's hordes are limitless. Our forces are not." he put a hand on her shoulder. "You still have a lot to learn, Aerin. Watch well in Sancre Tor." He paused. "We will be facing various kinds of undead. Stay your arrows against skeletons and ethereal enemies because you will only waste them." He removed his hand and walked further down along the battlements, leaving Aerin alone with the wind and her thoughts. She stayed still for a few moments, before shaking her head. The lights shifting under the surface of Gorgoth's ring appeared in front of her, and she angrily dismissed them, hoping to forget the trinket. It was unlikely that Gorgoth would let her see it again. Turning, she walked back into the barracks.

* * *

Hours later, it had refused to leave the Bosmer's mind. The events of the day – spending hours catching up with Saliith, who had managed to become Grand Champion, and another few hours practising with her swordwork with Ilend – should have been enough to drive it from her head, but the questions remained. Was it enchanted? What did it signify? What did it mean to Gorgoth? What was he doing with it? Frustrated, Aerin turned over on her bedroll and attempted to get to sleep, but it was no use. Sighing quietly, she kicked aside her blankets and rose to a sitting position, drawing her bare legs up to her torso and hugging them as she looked around.

The East Barracks was sparsely population as usual, with only about ten or so inhabitants. Ilend was a comforting presence – as usual – in the next bedroll behind her, whereas Gnaeus was as far as possible from everyone. The massive mound of green muscle and flesh that was Gorgoth lay a few bedrolls down, his huge chest rising and falling as he slept. His enchanted wallet lay by his side, along with his mace and dai-katana. His plate armour was strewn around the foot of the bedroll. Aerin's gaze fell to his wallet, before she hissed and forced her head to the side. _Stupid, stupid_, she berated herself. _Stupid, to even think about stealing from him_.

But her curiosity was a powerful motivator. Within a minute, she had uncurled herself and was padding silently towards the sleeping Orc, hunched over in a deep crouch. _It's not stealing_, she told herself. _I just want to take another look is all. _Using Gorgoth's snores to mask what little sound she made, the Wood Elf slowly took hold of his wallet and clasped it to her chest, moving away from him. The warrior-shaman didn't stir. Once again, Aerin cursed her curiosity; she felt like she was betraying his trust.

Sitting down on a bedroll a few rows away, Aerin swiftly reached into the wallet and groped around. It felt somewhat surreal, finding that massive space within such a small object, but eventually she grasped the ring and pulled it out. Looking around, the Bosmer satisfied herself that no-one else was awake – Saliith was a light sleeper - before diverting her attention to the ring in her hand. It looked exactly the same as it had in the morning, no matter how much she craned her neck or turned her hand. There was no light from the windows to reflect; the moon was obscured behind thick cloud. Grunting, Aerin ignored the clear signs of danger and thrust the ring onto the ring finger of her right hand, despite it looking comically big. Nothing happened. The Wood Elf frowned, staring at it for a few more seconds before removing it from her hand. Her frown deepened as her pointed ears informed her of movement.

"You could have just asked to see it again," whispered Gorgoth as he eased himself down beside her.

Aerin's first instinct was to run, but she fought down the sheer terror and panic threatening to overwhelm her and stayed where she was, sitting as still as a statue. Gorgoth was sitting so close that their hips were touching, but he didn't seem to be threatening her. He wasn't even looking in her direction. "Had you asked, I would have shown it to you," continued the Orc. His voice was pitched so low that Aerin had to strain her ears to make out anything other than a very quiet rumbling.

"I just... I was..." Her tongue tripped over the words. "I just wanted to know what it was," she explained feebly. "I didn't want to- I mean, I-" Gorgoth cut her off with a hand engulfing her entire upper arm.

"Quiet," he growled. "You'll wake the others, and we'll all need our sleep in the coming days." Turning to face her, he directed his gaze at the ring in her hand, taking it from her and holding it up to look at it. "It is not enchanted, if that is what you were wondering," he explained. "The mine in the Wrothgarians that produced the stone merely has that something... special about it. That is why it sometimes appears alive under the sun."

"I see," nodded Aerin, her fear abating slightly. He didn't seem to be about to kill her, but she reminded herself that she barely knew Gorgoth. And if he wanted to kill her, he could do so in seconds; the muscular body mere inches from hers made sure she remembered that. "But what exactly _is_ it? Ya don't exactly seem like an elf who likes to dress up in jewellery."

The warrior-shaman closed his eyes and exhaled. "A complex question to answer in full, Aerin," he told her. "I will say it simply: It is a signet ring. A symbol of the lordship forced upon me. I rejected that. I gave my lands to the Fighter's Guild. I renounced all my titles. I _refused_ to accept anything from-" The Orc abruptly broke off, staring down at the ring. "This is all I have left," he grated. "The only proof of that phase. I should have destroyed it long ago." He maintained his gaze for a moment longer, then closed his fist around the ring. A dark red glow momentarily escaped from between his fingers before fading. Keeping his fist closed, Gorgoth stood and walked out of the barracks to the courtyard. Judging by the lack of noise, he had Silenced his own footsteps.

Aerin considered returning to her bedroll, but Gorgoth was back quickly. Walking back to her her, he sat down again. His expression was even more unreadable than normal; Aerin had assumed that impossible. The ring, of course, was gone. It was likely strewn across the snowy mountainside in thousands of tiny pieces. "When I return to Orsinium, I will take what is mine by right, like I have done in the past," he whispered, speaking half to himself as he stared across the barracks. Aerin followed his gaze to look at his mace. Blood King seemed threatening even when lying still.

"Uh..." the sound of Aerin's voice brought Gorgoth's head around. "Gorgoth, I'm-" He held up a hand to forestall her.

"Do not apologise," he ordered. "Had I known how powerful your curiosity was, I would have insisted you tell me what was on your mind earlier." He shook his head. "Get some sleep, Aerin," he told her, rising to his feet. She hastily emulated him. "Sleep deeply. Do not be troubled by dreams. May you live to see the morning."

"You too, Gorgoth," she whispered, feeling grateful. Others would have skinned her alive; she'd certainly expected Gorgoth to. Maybe he wasn't as terrifying as she'd thought. The archer walked back to her bedroll and slid back between the blankets, grimacing as she noted that they'd gone cold. A few feet away, Ilend grunted and turned over, but did nothing other than emit a slight snore. With her curiosity sated – for now – sleep was quick to draw Aerin into its warm, dark embrace.

* * *

Two days later, Gorgoth signalled a halt. Gnaeus had estimated that they were only a few miles from Sancre Tor. With Masser and Secunda already shining brightly overhead, the warrior-shaman wanted them all fully rested for the challenge awaiting them. Gnaeus located a suitable clearing and within minutes the horses were securely tied to rocks or trees and a fire was beginning to crackle. Gorgoth and Selene divided up the planned watch between them, each using Detect Life and Night Eye spells to ensure safety better than any other possible sentry.

After a few minutes had passed, Ilend leaned across to Aerin and beckoned to her, jerking his head in the direction of the trees, indicating that he wanted to talk to her in whatever privacy they could find. She nodded and walked off after him, responding to Saliith's knowing wink with a cool stare. He sniggered and turned back to listen to Lurog's anecdote, which included a lot of blood and slaughter. Those kind of things seemed to be commonplace in and around Orsinium.

"A while ago, you told me it was your birthday next week," claimed Ilend, turning to face her once they were a suitable distance from the camp.

"Yeah... so I did..." replied Aerin, casting her mind back to that night when they'd repelled the wine thieves. She didn't remember much of that night after that, though judging from the smirks Fadus had sent her and the size of her headache the morning after, it hadn't exactly been calm. "In fact..." The Bosmer peered up at the stars, most of which were visible through the sparse canopy. "Yeah, it's today. Until tomorrow, that is, which is in a few minutes."

"Better not waste time, then," said Ilend, a grin spreading across his face as he reached into the small of his back, tugging at something in his sword belt. "I noticed you don't carry a dagger. Your shortswords are good, but there are times when you need the versatility of something shorter, so..." He held out his hands in front of him.

Aerin gasped, her eyes growing wide as they beheld the dagger in Ilend's grasp. The silver blade – as long as her two hands together – shimmered with pale blue magicka, sending the occasional sparkle of frost magic to dance in the air before dissipating. Providing a good grip, the ridged hilt was also silver, with a small, fine guard to protect her hand. A small sapphire was embedded in the pommel, and the dark leather scabbard was worked with silver. "It's... beautiful," breathed Aerin, hardly daring to believe her eyes.

Typically, Ilend snorted. "One would hope it's good at it's intended purpose, as well," he remarked, gripping the hilt in one hand. "I got the idea from a gladiator who passed through the Kvatch Arena on the way to the Imperial City a while back," he explained, looking at the dagger. "He had a dagger a bit like this one, though not as well-made. Called it Shimmerstrike."

"I met him," recalled Aerin. "Didn't look like much to me. I hear he died."

"Well, either way, the frost enchantment on this won't let you down. Stick it a bandit and he'll have a hunk of frozen flesh to worry about." Smiling, Ilend sheathed the dagger and tucked it into place on Aerin's belt.

"How... how much did it cost?" stammered Aerin, fingering the sapphire before running her finger down the hilt. Despite the enchantment, the cold was the natural temperature of silver, already slightly warmed by Ilend's hand.

Ilend smirked. "Well, I had a lot saved up, and Agnete gave a good price," he told her. "And as for the enchantment... well, let's just say I owe Gorgoth a favour. A big one."

As she glanced at her new dagger once again, a grateful smile spread over Aerin's face. She threw her arms around Ilend, squeezing him hard. His chainmail was hard and cold, but she could feel the warm body underneath. "Thank you," she mumbled, face pressed against his chest as his own arms snaked around her. "I've never really had the chance to say-" She was cut off by a loud harrumph behind them. Springing apart, they spun to see Gnaeus watching them, casually leaning on a tree.

"Gorgoth wants us," he told them simply before turning to leave. He paused, looking back over his shoulder. "And I'd advise you not to do _that_ until we're through this. You'll be wanting to save your energy for this bloody place, and let me tell you..." he pointed a bony finger at Aerin "..._she_ looks like a handful." With a final grunt, he turned and departed.

Ilend and Aerin exchanged glances for a few seconds before Ilend smirked and nodded in the direction Gnaeus had taken. "Well, if Gorgoth wants all of us, it's probably important," he observed. Aerin nodded weakly, falling in beside him as they walked back to the camp.

When they got back to the fireside, Gorgoth was hunched over what appeared to be a map he'd drawn in the dirt with his finger. Saliith twisted around and gave Aerin another wink, receiving a shaken fist in response. "Jauffre gave me an outline of what we might face," started Gorgoth, raising his head to peer at each of his comrades in turn. "It is probably going to be run-of-the-mill undead, which you all know how to deal with, but with such insidious evil down there we might come across something more powerful."

"So silver weapons are advised, then?" asked Saliith, shifting uncomfortably. Gorgoth nodded. "Anyone got a silver shortsword I could borrow?" inquired the Argonian, looking around uncertainly.

"I'll summon you a couple of bound shortswords when we enter Sancre Tor," reassured Gorgoth. "Now, I don't have much idea of the layout-" he looked down at the diagram he'd drawn and shook his head "-but I do know that it is massive. We will have to split up to find our objective."

"I gather that meeting up again might be a problem," interjected Ilend.

"I cannot communicate telepathically. But Selene and me have prepared a few detect life potions." Gorgoth removed a cluster of five potions from his belt. "Seeing as there won't be much life down there, the only signatures you see will be each other," he grunted. "Use them if you're lost. They have a long range." Standing, the Orc looked around. "Prepare for battle," he growled. "You'll certainly get a lot of it in Sancre Tor."

* * *

**A/N: Right, Sancre Tor next chapter... *cracks knuckles* I'm not particularly looking forward to going over it in detail both ingame and on UESP, but needs must. I want to get it right. And remember that reviews always help me, so take a few minutes to leave one.**


	31. Cleansing

**A/N: Well, it's been a while... three weeks, in fact. And in that long time, I only got seven reviewers. This update might well have been a lot quicker if some more of you had got off your lazy arses and helped my motivation by giving me more reviews.**

**Nachosforever: Ah, I get that 'mook' thing now. And while I wouldn't call the Blades 'expendable', they are ready to die for the Emperor and yes, they are footsoldiers. And I don't see why Gorgoth would hire Imperial Battlemages. He has no reason to trust them like he can trust Selene, and for him trust is important. Besides, he has all the firepower he needs.**

**Underpaid Critic: You're right, those two different types of torture DO vary greatly and require different approaches. Gorgoth is an expert in both. And you WILL see the information-gathering method in future. If the Blades got into a war of attrition, they would definitely lose. That's why time is so important here.**

**Just remember... more reviews. I want them.**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-one: Cleansing**

The sun had barely crested the horizon when Gorgoth started waking the others. He wanted to be well away from Sancre Tor by sunset. Having grown used to late nights and early mornings – some through military life, some through travelling with him – the squad was up and ready within minutes. The fire was kicked out of existence, bedrolls were rolled up and placed on horses, and weapons and armour were donned. Breakfast was hastily snatched while on the move. Some ate little, not wishing to fight on a full stomach, whereas some ate more, desiring energy for the long fight to come.

"Not all of us may come out," Gorgoth told them as he attached his last saddlebag to Vorguz's saddle. "You know this, obviously; the same is true for every battle. But we are going into this one half blind." He gave each of them a quick glance before hauling himself into Vorguz's back. "Remain watchful. We will not fail." The way he said it indicated that they would not fail because he would not allow it. Not waiting for any response, he motioned them forward before booting the stallion into motion.

It did not take long before the outer walls of what used to be the fortress of Sancre Tor appeared through the trees. As the tree line ended, the group rode out and beheld what had used to be a holy place, a site of pilgrimage for many. Now it was a derelict ruin with a pervading atmosphere of darkness. The air seemed chilled, and there seemed to be a lack of bright light despite the clear skies. Broken walls of dark stone stretched out of sight, with many areas crumbling into piles of rubble. Weeds and vines cracked the stones in numerous places, slowly tearing the once-proud walls apart. Shattered pillars dotted the area, jutting out of the earth like broken teeth. Decaying battlements loomed over the dead fort, their jagged, gaping windows revealing only nothingness. Skeletons pockmarked the hard ground, some old, some newer. Every single one had died violently. The stench of death was everywhere, and in every shadow there seemed to be some new terrifying danger eager to claim the lives of these new victims.

"Be on your guard," reminded Gorgoth as he dismounted. Vorguz and Astakh – Lurog's Wrothgarian stallion – were the only two horses not to seem unnerved by their surroundings. "I expect there to be a number of undead on the surface. Keep your weapons and your eyes ready."

"What about the horses?" asked Aerin, soothing the jittery Firebrand by rubbing her neck. "Won't those undead find them?"

"Not if they stay behind my cloak of illusion," responded Gorgoth, tying Vorguz to a nearby pillar. "They will be unseen by all except me or someone extremely proficient in Illusion magic." He motioned for them to tie their horses nearby while making sure the immediate area was secure.

"I don't like this place," grated Ilend, looking around cautiously as he stepped away from Javelin with his hand on his sword hilt. "It's bloody unnatural. Give me a proper enemy to fight any day, not this... feeling of being watched." The Imperial irritably scratched the back of his neck.

"The evil of the Underking is far-reaching, it would seem," observed Selene, casting a Detect Life spell and looking around. That spell would be useless for detecting undead, but it would be reassuring to know that there were no mortals in the area either. Saliith had scaled a nearby wall to look around the area.

"Looks like the entrance to the lower levels is down there," he called, pointing at a distant door near a broken battlement. "No enemies that I can see, just a load of bones."

Gorgoth nodded and stepped back, focusing his attention on the spell he was casting. Tendrils of light green Illusion magic curled from his outstretched palm, spreading over the area. The light seemed to warp and abruptly the illusion slid into place, hiding the company's horses from view. The ground appeared completely empty. Gorgoth surveyed his handiwork for a few moments before grunting and motioning for everyone to follow him. He took Blood King off his back and held it in his right fist as he advanced across the barren ground. Saliith had barely opened his mouth before two daedric shortswords appeared in scabbards on his sword belt. The Argonian closed his mouth and nodded his thanks to Gorgoth, drawing one of the summoned weapons. His preparations were swiftly emulated by the rest of the squad, and for a few moments the rasping of scabbards filled their air. Gorgoth led the way towards the entrance with Lurog bringing up the rear.

Everyone was on high alert, so they all heard the skeleton approaching. It appeared from behind a pillar, a battleaxe clenched in one hand. Such a heavy weapon held in that way would have overbalanced it had it still been alive, but the necromancer doing the reanimation had obviously known their work well, as the skeleton hefted the weapon effortlessly. The bare bones were loosely covered with scraps of what had once been chainmail before age and combat had taken its toll. It made a low hissing sound and shambled forward a few paces before Aerin's arrow splintered its skull. Normally resilient against arrows, the sheer penetration and power of Trueshot's enchantment meant that the undead minion collapsed to the ground, just another heap of old bones.

"More approaching," announced Gorgoth, his powerful voice cutting through the steel air, though his tone was as emotionless as ever. There were indeed more skeletons clambering over walls and rising from the ground. "Give yourself room," ordered the warrior-shaman, turning to stare the the nearest skeleton to him, a particularly large example wielding a warhammer. The skeletal structure looked Orcish. "There are not many of them. Divide and conquer."

Not looking back to see what his comrades did, and confident that at least some would cover his back, Gorgoth stepped forward to meet his undead assailant. It had started a swing with both hands, the warhammer's heavy head cleaving through the air towards the Orc's skull. Gorgoth felt the shock running through his entire body as he firmly stood his ground, blocking the attack with Blood King's haft. Sliding the mace down along his enemy's weapon, Gorgoth tore it from the skeleton's hands before spinning and slamming Blood King's head into its chest. The air seemed to warp slightly, a black pulse spreading from the point of impact before being lost in the blink of an eye. With its ribcage and spine falling apart, the skeleton was propelled through the air until it hit a wall with such force that the stone cracked. The ancient bones, however well-preserved, stood no chance; they disintegrated into dust.

Two more skeletons rounded a nearby wall and charged for Gorgoth with uncanny speed. The warrior-shaman merely raised his left palm and blasted both of them apart with chain lightning. A stray skull flying over his shoulder with half of it caved in told him that Lurog was making himself known to the enemy with his usual gusto. Turning, Gorgoth observed that most of the skeletons were now nothing more than useless piles of bones, their second death ensured by the dispelling of the necromantic magic holding them together. Aerin was critically looking over arrows she'd recovered from two of them, inspecting the arrowheads before deciding they were undamaged enough to be reused and returning them to the quiver on her shoulder.

"If this is the only resistance we'll be getting, then this place isn't living up to the hype," observed Saliith, running appreciative eyes over the edge of his daedric shortsword. It had chopped through the tough bones like they were paper.

"Never get complacent," growled Lurog, looking around for any further threats. The last remaining skeleton was being cut in two at the spine by Gnaeus. "Complacency kills. Always be on your guard. Never underestimate your foes."

"Ya sound like Gorgoth," commented Aerin as Saliith muttered something under his breath.

"I am not the source of all the wisdom in the world, Aerin," rumbled Gorgoth. He jerked his head to the side. "Keep moving. Time is a luxury. And remain watchful; Lurog is right."

It only took a few more minutes to reach the entrance to the catacombs beneath the fort. A few stray skeletons were dispatched by Gorgoth's fireballs, but there was no other resistance. They all knew, however, that there would be far more danger than this down below. The heavy wooden double doors were reinforced by steel, but it had long since rusted away to almost nothing. They creaked and groaned as Gorgoth and Lurog heaved back on them, slowly sliding them open. Light penetrated only so far into the ruin, revealing bleak stone walls and crumbling floors. There was no light coming from within.

Gorgoth took the first few steps into Sancre Tor, a dazzling globe of light appearing above his head to light the way forward. Cobwebs and old bones crunched under his heavy boots as he motioned for the rest to follow him. "The path appears to be linear," he told them, his deep voice echoing off the walls. "Remember that not everything will be as it seems." He started off deeper into the catacombs, following the one direction available to them with Blood King clenched in his right fist. Selene watched their rear, conjuring her own light.

The single passageway stretched on for a while, taking them down into the earth. Chilled air and the stifling atmosphere made the catacombs even less welcoming than the surface. The cold light of the spells did nothing to make the old fort more welcoming, but they did mean that any attack would stand out. For now, the only sound was heavy breathing, the clanking of armour, and the crunching of various substances underfoot. From time to time, what sounded like a distant, howling wind reached their ears, as if they needed any reminding that this fort was unnatural.

After five minutes of no-one speaking, Aerin almost jumped out of her skin when Gorgoth's rumble tore through the silence: "There are likely to be ghosts or wraiths around. Leave them to me. Even daedric or silver is of limited use against them."

"Rather you than me, big guy," muttered Aerin, shaking her head and unconsciously half-drawing an arrow to test the bowstring before edging slightly closer to Saliith. The Argonian had both his summoned blades drawn and ready for use; his yellow eyes never lingered in one place. If Gorgoth was to be believed, attacks could come through the walls in this place.

A few minutes later, Gorgoth held up a clenched fist to stop them before edging slowly around the next corner. He grunted. "Ghost up ahead," he told them. "Move up, but do not attack." The rest of the squad moved slowly around the corner to find the massive Orc walking slowly up to a silvery, ethereal figure. A naked torso floated several feet off the ground, short emaciated arms stretching out towards the warrior-shaman with its long claws of fingernails seeming eager to find his throat. Blank, dead eyes were locked onto the Orc's amber eyes; it was hard to tell which were the colder. Gorgoth reached out and brushed at the ghost with his free hand. The shimmering cloud billowed, spreading apart before dispersing completely, leaving nothing behind.

"Illusion," snorted Gorgoth. "A good one. There is a lich in here somewhere." He turned his head slightly. "Selene, are you capable of defeating a lich?"

The half-elf's eyes were still fixated on where the illusion had been. Gorgoth's words brought her back to reality with a start. "I... think so," she muttered, her voice lacking confidence. Gorgoth said nothing, merely motioning them onward once again.

After a few more minutes walking, the passage finally opened up into an unremarkable room. Four pillars held up the roof, and were in various states of decay, but the danger of the roof caving in was secondary to the four wraiths waiting for them. Everyone scrambled back into the passageway, seeking cover from the deadly spells that the undead would soon be throwing; the sole exceptions were Gorgoth and Selene, who unleashed their magicka without a second thought. The wraiths barely had time to react before lightning danced between them, their second stay on this plane of existence coming to an abrupt end.

"Move up," growled Gorgoth. "If they did not know of our presence beforehand, they certainly do now. The longer you stay in a ruin like this, the stronger the opposition becomes." Without waiting for a response, the Orc led them off in a brisk jog, the clanking of his armour echoing down the passageway.

It didn't take long for another room to open up, slightly less bleak than the first, with various statues and pillar long since fallen into disrepair. A skeleton stood in the centre of the room, its blank eye sockets watching Gorgoth as he signalled a halt. Gorgoth noted with interest that it wielded an Akaviri katana and a shield in the design of the Blades. On its head was a helmet that had stood the test of time far better than the rest of the ruin. It hissed a challenge. "Lurog, take the left. Ilend, go for the right," commanded Gorgoth as he walked slowly forward, directly towards the undead Blade.

The skeleton's head whipped round and it launched itself at Ilend, who had been creeping around its flank. The Imperial barely got his shield up in time to block a slash with substantial force behind it, powerful magic making up for the complete lack of muscle on his enemy's frame. Ilend darted forward, shield in front of him, forcing the skeleton back before aiming a stab at its head. With uncanny agility, his opponent simply _flowed_ around the attack and once again slashed at the swordsman's torso. He threw himself backwards, and it was his momentum in the other direction, combined with the effectiveness of his chainmail, that left him with bruised ribs instead of being gutted.

As Ilend staggered backwards, attempting to regain his balance, Gorgoth moved in, directing a mighty overhead cleave at the skeleton's skull. It span to meet him and blocked the attack with its katana. Where a normal weapon would have been shattered by Blood King's enchantment, the ancient katana seemed to resist the immense force, so the undead Blade merely stumbled backwards. Before it could recover, Gorgoth's left hand darted out and grabbed the spinal column just above the pelvis, picking the skeleton up and throwing it behind him, where Lurog was ready to smash it to the ground with most of its old bones broken.

"What in Arkay's name was _that_?" spluttered Ilend, glaring down at the fallen Blade. "I've never seen a skeleton move like that before. What kind of-" Gorgoth cut him off.

"Even the King of Worms himself cannot achieve something of this nature," he rumbled, peering closer at the pile of bones. A slight shimmering around the skeleton, coalescing into something more tangible, alerted him to another possible danger. "This is something else entirely," he mused as the form took shape in front of him.

Within seconds of forming, the ghost of what appeared to be an Imperial Blade had several weapons pointing at him as he looked around with a confused, vague gaze. Gorgoth merely straightened and held up a hand, stopping his comrades from attacking the spectre. "Who are – who were you?" he asked the dead Blade.

The ghost's blank eyes fell on Gorgoth and the apparition's mouth opened, apparently struggling for words before finding a method of communication. "I... I was Rielus, loyal Blade of Emperor Tiber Septim." His voice was weak; it was reminiscent of leaves rustling gently in a distant breeze.

Gorgoth nodded as though he'd been expecting this and motioned for his companions to lower their weapons. "What happened here?" he asked, motioning to the area around them with the head of Blood King.

Rielus shook his head, obviously dazed by his forcible ejection from his skeletal host. "It feels like.. an eternity that I have been dead," he whispered. "I was... we were... the Underking's taint must be removed." Drawing himself up, Rielus suddenly acquired a sense of purpose. "The oath must be fulfilled. We must cleanse the taint. Follow me." He walked through Gorgoth – who felt a slight chill, nothing more – and headed towards the passages leading deeper into the catacombs.

Ignoring the confused glances of some of his comrades, Gorgoth fell in behind the ghost with Blood King at the ready, following Rielus deeper into the fort. His light seemed to pass right through the spectre, who despite seeming almost tangible left no shadow. The warrior-shaman tried asking a few questions, but they were met only with silence. Two wraiths were dispatched by fireballs without missing a beat. One other ghost, upon sizing up the threat of the approaching intruders, retired quietly back through the wall to let them pass without resistance.

Without warning, the passage opened up into a large, cavernous room. The group emerged from one of several identical hallways, all leading away from the centre of the chamber. A stone platform, suspended from four pillars, rose out of a pool of dark, stagnant water. There were steps leading down from the platform away from them, leading into a murky blackness. Rielus halted. "That leads to the Tomb of the Reman Emperors," he sighed, gesturing at the steps.

"That's where we're going," replied Gorgoth, starting forward. Rielus held up a hand.

"It is what we were sent to cleanse," the Blade whispered. "The Underking's taint is strong. You will not get past. Unless I and my brothers fulfil our oath..." his weak voice trailed off and he slowly walked towards the platform. Gorgoth did not follow him.

"So... what now, big guy?" piped up Aerin.

"From what I can gather..." Gorgoth shook his head, tapping his canine as the ghost of Rielus descended into the tomb, fading from view. "He had comrades. Together, they might be able to break the taint sealing the tomb."

"It's a big place," observed Saliith, looking around the large chamber. "Could take us days to search it all."

"Time we don't have," growled Gnaeus. "Got any plans, greenskin? I seem to remember that you might actually have half a brain on you, which is more than what most of you boneheads can boast about." Lurog muttered something under his breath about senile old men. "I heard that!" snapped Gnaeus.

"We split up," commanded Gorgoth, ignoring Gnaeus's usual provocations. "There look to be three other hallways leading from this room. A squad goes down each one and looks for those Blades. Release them. They know their way back if Rielus is anything to go by."

"That's easier said than done," remarked Selene. "We have no idea where this place goes, how deep it is..."

"I am aware of that," retorted Gorgoth. "If this was easy, we would have won the war by now. I have no time for complaining or whining." Taking a few steps forward, the warrior-shaman looked slowly around the chamber. A wraith, previously unnoticed, turned its head towards him. The Orc casually brushed it aside with lightning. "Gnaeus, Aerin, and Saliith, you take that path to our left." Those named peered in the direction of his outstretched finger before heading off towards the passage. "Aerin, if my assumptions are correct, your arrows can destroy liches," Gorgoth told her. "Use them sparingly." The Bosmer raised an eyebrow and looked down at Trueshot briefly, her respect for her weapon rising even more.

"Ilend, you and Selene take the nearer passage to our right," ordered the Orc. "Lurog, it's you and me for the last one."

"Just like old times?" asked Lurog, a small smile on his face as he was reminded of their work together as mercenaries, and before that, as commanders of cavalry in the army. Ilend and Selene disappeared down their allocated passageway.

"Old and new, it seems," replied Gorgoth, switching to Orcish. The warrior-shaman hefted Blood King before leading off in the direction of the far hallway. "This time, however, we face those who have already died. We face spirit and bone, not flesh."

Lurog snorted. "Our maces make short work of skeletons," he claimed, holding his own long steel example in his right hand. His shield was strapped to his left forearm and was ready to be brought up within an instant.

"Indeed. I'll handle the ghosts and wraiths. You focus on the skeletons. Take point; I will have your back."

Lurog had barely moved in front of his old commander before the passage twisted and they were both confronted with five skeletons standing in a ragged line with weapons at the ready. Lurog bellowed a war cry that shook the dust from the crevasses above them and charged at the undead, his shield batting aside a longsword while his mace hammered down through a skeleton's collarbone. The entire ribcage shattered on one side, and the skeleton was freed from the magic binding it to this plane of existence.

A skeleton twisted around and aimed its battleaxe at Lurog's exposed rear, only to find itself flying in several different directions as Blood King smashed through it. Gorgoth turned and caught another skeleton's scimitar in the palm of his hand. His gauntlet suffered a small dent, but the Orc was able to capitalise on his opponent's loss of balance and sent its skull flying down the corridor at high velocity. Lurog kicked aside another of the falling pile of bones and closed in on the last skeleton, absorbing two swings of its longsword with his shield before kicking it in the shin. Hissing as the ankle bone cracked, the undead warrior was unable to respond in time before the Orc slammed his mace into its chest. Grave dust and broken bones were scattered over the pitted stone floor.

"They would probably have been a harder fight had they been alive," observed Lurog as they continued onwards.

Gorgoth nodded. "It depends on the necromancer, largely," he grunted. "These were probably raised by the Underking. He would have used up a lot of his powers by creating the curse on the four Blades and sealing the tomb. Not much energy left for the automatic necromancy spells that afflict every adventurer that falls in this place." A light began shimmering at the end of the passage. "Prepare yourself," he warned.

The wraith finished coalescing and sent a frost spell as wide as the passageway towards the two Orcs. Gorgoth quickly stepped forward and absorbed it before unleashing chain lightning from his left hand. The wraith faded from view before the danger reached it, and the lightning instead took a chuck out of the wall, shaking the catacombs as the sound of the impact boomed throughout the halls. Motioning for Lurog to follow him quickly, Gorgoth set off towards the large room at the end of the tunnel, keeping an eye out for the wraith reappearing. Long years of undeath had given it wisdom.

Gorgoth stopped short of entering the room and peered through the doorway, which had long ago been deprived of any door. Several wraiths were drifting around, as were a few ghosts. Bones tapping on stone were indications of patrolling skeletons. There were no zombies in sight. Bone lasted longer than flesh. Lurog flicked a stray shred of what used to be a finger bone off his mace head.

"You'll destroy the spectres while I deal with the skeletons?" he asked, his voice a low murmur.

"That's the plan." Gorgoth laid his hand on his friend's shoulder, covering him with protective magic. Lurog raised an eyebrow. "You probably won't need it. But some of those skeletons might be stronger than they look. And a few of those wraiths might get spells off." Lurog nodded and rushed forward into the room, charging towards the nearest skeleton. Gorgoth advanced more slowly, identifying each wraith or ghost as he raised both hands.

Lightning leapt from the Orc's fingertips, multiple bolts striking out and tearing into the ghostly apparitions. Many didn't have time to react as they collapsed into pools of ectoplasm. Some sent spells back at the warrior-shaman, but he'd already cast a powerful resistance spell, which was augmented by his naturally resistant Orcish blood. He shrugged off their spells and continued scything them down. Some attempted to flee by fading into the walls, only to find the walls ripped apart around them by Destruction magic. The sense retained by the skeletons allowed them to identify Gorgoth as a dangerous enemy – even more dangerous than his comrade currently ripping their ranks to pieces – and so started off towards him in their shambling run. Some were blasted apart by his magic, while others collapsed as his own necromancy undid the spells that held them to their second life. Only one reached him. Stepping forward, a single blow from Blood King tore the battle axe out of its hands and gave him the opening he needed to reduce it to dust.

There were only two more skeletons remaining, and they had to be careful when moving; the bones littering the floor could cause them to slip or stumble. Lurog eyed them cautiously. These two were the best of the opponent's he'd faced, and blood was already running down his face from a gash on his scalp. It had been a strong blow, to get past Gorgoth's magical shielding; Lurog had been lucky he'd been moving backwards to avoid the axe. Blinking the blood out of his eye – he couldn't wipe it with those two hovering – he stepped forward and bashed his shield into the weapon arm of one. Kicking its legs from under it, the Orc rapidly stepped back to block the swing of the other. The longsword rattled against his shield but left no impression on the well-forged steel. Lurog pushed forward, forcing the skeleton back, before withdrawing and swinging his mace overhead. His opponent attempted to dodge, but the heavy head moved too quickly and the skeleton crumpled as most of its ribs were shattered. Lurog whirled and kicked at its comrade, sending it back to the ground before ending it with a strike that cracked its spine in two.

Gorgoth wandered over to tap the wound on Lurog's head. Blue healing magic illuminated the Orc's face briefly before it closed up. "You're not collecting scars, are you?" he asked.

Lurog smirked, wiping the blood from his face. "Any fool can cut himself and then boast about how he won the scar," he rumbled.

"Like that snivelling Breton runt whose ears I nailed to the door of the inn?" recalled Gorgoth as he patrolled the room, peering into crevasses and shadows. There was occasionally a splash as he stepped in a puddle of ectoplasm, or a crunch as his boot crushed a stray bone.

"I seem to remember the innkeeper not being very happy about that," sniggered Lurog, grinning as the fond memory came to him. "Dralasa wasn't very happy either; she'd wanted another ten minutes of flirting at least."

Gorgoth levered open a chest after unlocking it with Alteration magic. "She found someone else to have fun with," he commented. He scooped out a few coins and shoved them into his wallet before closing the chest. "Move on," he commanded. "I see a corridor just over there. Take the lead."

"I wouldn't mind having Dralasa here right now, if I'm honest," murmured Lurog as he wiped grave dust off his mace while entering the passageway. "I missed those one-sided Destruction contests you two had."

"One-sided in that only she cared, you mean," snorted Gorgoth. While he hadn't cared, Dralasa Helas certainly had, and the Dark Elf was good enough with Destruction for it to have actually been an even competition a lot of the time. That fact made it even more odd that if her talent for that particular school was removed, she'd be weaker than an apprentice mage in terms of expertise. "Well, we might see more of her later. I told her she could find me in Bruma."

"Yeah, and you know how mad she is," smirked Lurog. "She'd love to be at the centre of all this." He stopped talking as two skeletons up ahead noted their presence and moved to attack. The two Orcs advanced side-by-side; the corridor was wide enough to allow them both to work effectively together. One skeleton advanced ahead of his comrade, launching himself at Lurog with his claymore slashing down in an overhead cleave. The warrior simply forced the blade up with the edge of his shield and jabbed the skeleton's lower ribs with his mace head. Gorgoth flattened himself against the wall in order to let the other skeleton's thrust slide past him before tripping his opponent and bringing Blood King down on the back of its spine. Lurog finished off its comrade with an upwards attack on the groin that shattered the skeleton's spine.

"I haven't seen any more undead Blades yet," observed Lurog as they continued onwards.

"They'll be around," responded Gorgoth. "I doubt you'd be able to mistake them for any of these examples of poor workmanship. The blanket necromancy spells never have the best quality."

"If you say so," muttered his companion. Lurog sometimes resented the fact that he had no magical ability at all, but he always buried such thoughts; as Gorgoth had told him long ago, there was no point in regret. "More skeletons up head," he warned as they turned a corner. "Ghosts and wraiths, as well. We've certainly got a lot of good fighting here."

* * *

Ilend grunted with the effort as he wrenched his sword free from a skeleton's skull. Sweat and a few trickles of blood poured down the Imperial's face as he wiped the back of his gauntlet over his eyes. The chill of the ruin did nothing to alleviate the heat his body was radiating after fighting near-continuously for ten minutes in full chainmail armour. After a few seconds, his breath stopped coming in ragged gasps and settled to a more normal pace, though still deep and fast. Blood was matted in his hair, marking where a skeleton had got too close. He had healed that wound himself; no point in draining Selene's reserves any further.

"I don't see any ghosts rising from these," observed the half-elf, unconsciously sweeping her hair out of her face as she leaned on her glaive. Unusually for two people just involved in heavy combat, neither of their weapons were bloodied, though chips in the steel of Selene's blade indicated where it had met the tough bone of skeletons.

"None of them were a big enough challenge," responded Ilend, grunting as he rose from his crouch. The small room they were in was now littered with several collapsed skeletons and a few puddles of ectoplasm. They'd both lost count of how many similar rooms they'd cleared. "That's a relief, at least; if even a quarter of these skeletons were as good as that Blade, we'd both be dead by now."

Selene sighed and rubbed her eyes vigourously. One of the ghosts had hit her with a debilitating spell a while back, and she still hadn't fully recovered from the sudden exhaustion. On that occasion, Ilend had been glad to find that his longsword worked as well against ghosts as it did against skeletons. She shook her head to clear her vision and took a potion from her belt, gulping it down and feeling a slight tingle as her reserves of magical energy were restored somewhat.

"We should keep moving," urged Ilend. "Who knows what kind of intelligence they have? I haven't seen a wraith appear out of a wall in front of us yet, but that's not saying it won't happen." The battlemage nodded in agreement, and the swordsman needed no further encouragement. He moved off immediately, walking quickly down the next passageway, keeping his eyes peeled for anything that wasn't made of stone. Selene's light was powerful and illuminated a large area with its stark green-tinted glow. They'd need it.

"How _big_ is this ruin?" wondered Selene as her head swivelled from side to side. Ilend reminded himself that until recently, her entire life had consisted of one tiny island and its inhabitants. "There must be hundreds of undead down here," she continued. "I doubt we can-" Ilend cut her off.

"There were hundreds of Daedra at Kvatch as well," he snapped. "And before you say there were more of us then, you're worth at least twenty of my old comrades in a fight." The figure was probably higher than that, but the Imperial couldn't bring himself to fully trust her battle knowledge yet. She had experience of Oblivion, true, but of little else. "Besides, we don't have to fight them all. Just enough."

"I hope so," she muttered. Her head snapped up. "Wraith," she warned, hurling a fireball as the spectre silently coalesced in front of them. It missed as the wraith flowed to the side, instead impacting on the wall. The explosion rocked the entire cavern, throwing both of them off balance as a sheet of flame engulfed the wraith and everything within ten feet of it. Chunks of melting rock pelted them, pinging off their armour and singeing their hair. Shielding his eyes, Ilend straightened and squinted down the passageway as the flames faded from existence. The wraith was gone, along with large chucks of rock, replaced with a steaming crater and deep gouges in the wall.

"Did you have to make it so... powerful?" asked Ilend, scratching the back of his head.

"Just... wanted to be sure," muttered Selene, not meeting his eyes. "I hate wraiths." Ilend opened his mouth before closing it again, deciding not to ask. "Come on, we can jump over that crater without using magic."

_Easy for you to say, in your lighter armour_, growled Ilend to himself as he stepped back to get a sufficient run-up. Shaking his head, he sprinted head down towards the crater, leaping over it and landing in a sprawl on the other side. He recovered quickly and was back on his feet within seconds with his sword at the ready. Selene landed slightly more gracefully a few moments later. "Next time..." Ilend paused. "Next time, just use lightning. Got it?" He didn't wait for a response before leading them onwards.

It didn't take long for them to reach the next room. It was larger than the last few, cavernous, with numerous pillars holding up the roof. A handful of statues, none of which had more than half their sculpting left, dotted the chamber. Incongruously, a bright purple magical flame burnt in a large stone bowl, providing illumination but doing nothing to alleviate the cold. A few wraiths were floating around, and Ilend could count four skeletons, none of which seemed to be equipped as a Blade.

Selene immediately strode into the room and slammed the haft of her glaive into the ground. The entire chamber trembled, forcing Ilend to grab a nearby statue to maintain his balance as the skeletons fell to the ground, frantically attempting to regain their balance. Turning to regard the threat, the wraiths were predictably unaffected, until numerous fireballs burst from the tip of Selene's still-grounded weapon. Two fireballs each homed in on a wraith. One dodged in time; its two companions in undeath did not.

As Selene turned to engage the remaining wraith, dispelling her minor earthquake, Ilend regained his footing and charged towards the skeletons. He cut down two before they had fully recovered, only to be knocked back by the claymore of the larger one as it found its feet. Blocking its second attack with his shield, Ilend pressed forward and forced it back before stabbing blindly past his shield. He felt a jolt as his blade severed the skeleton's spine. As his opponent collapsed, breaking in two, only a swishing in the air warned Ilend to duck. The undead warrior's axe missed the top of his head by inches as it stumbled into him. He elbowed it in the ribs and kicked back, fortunately connecting with its knee. A sharp snap informed him of success as he span and decapitated it. The skull bounced twice before rolling to a halt against Selene's boot.

Arching a mildly amused eyebrow at the grinning skull, the half-elf kicked it aside. "If only daedra were as easy to kill as this," she muttered.

"If you asked Dagon politely, I'm sure you and him could reach an agreement," retorted Ilend sarcastically. "Come on, focus. It only takes one unnoticed wraith to take you out, and then I'm pretty much fucked." The Imperial was well aware that he simply couldn't do much about the spells that wraiths and ghosts threw at him; there was only so much dodging a man could do.

"Which is why we should take a rest for a few minutes," suggested Selene. "I'd rather not use up another potion, but that last wraith knew its stuff. Hit me with a spell that leeched out a lot of my magicka."

Ilend nodded. He could go on fighting for a while yet, but a breather would do him good. The swordsman sheathed his weapon and walked over to a wall, sliding down into a sitting position. Selene joined him, leaning her glaive against her shoulder as she drew her legs up to her chest and dispelled her light. "Don't let your guard down completely," warned Ilend as his eyes adjusted to the less intense light offered by the purple flames. "If we get surprised, we might just join that lot." He gestured at the scattered bones.

"Yeah, I've got spells ready to throw," reassured Selene. She angrily swept loose strands of her golden hair back behind her ear. "How do you keep this out of your face?" she questioned.

Ilend smirked. "A bit of combing does wonders," he told her, removing one of his gauntlets and rubbing at some of the rapidly drying blood staining his black locks. "Besides, I wore a helmet for six years. My hair is used to it."

"You're not wearing one right now."

"Lost my old one at Kvatch. Haven't had time to have a new one made, and I don't like the pre-made ones at Cloud Ruler. None really fit me." Ilend idly fumbled for a nearby hip bone and casually chucked it across the room. It hit a pillar and bounced to the ground. The Imperial suddenly laughed. "How the fuck did I end up doing this?" he chuckled, shaking his head. Selene glanced at him sideways, worry in her eyes.

"Weeks ago, I was just another Kvatch Watch Sergeant, with no problems other than the occasional drunkard and some banditry." Ilend raised his head and smirked again. "And now look at me. It's absurd. Gone from upholder of the law to some displaced swordsman on a revenge mission." He sighed, his breath escaping slowly. Selene tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder, being at a complete loss as to what to do. "Well, at least I have a life to go back to after this is over. How many others from Kvatch can say that?"

"I... know how you feel," Selene told him hesitantly. In a way, she'd lost more than him; almost everything she'd ever known had gone. "But I'm not sure if I have much for me outside this... war."

Ilend stared at her intently for what seemed like a long time. "You're right," he said finally. "But..." he shook his head angrily. "No time to dwell on the future," he growled. The Imperial dragged himself to his feet and offered a hand to the battlemage. "Come on, we've got a battle to fight; worry about what comes after when you get there. _If_ any of us get there."

Selene hesitated for a second before grasping his proffered hand and standing, putting some of her weight back on her glaive before releasing his hand. "Let's hope we all do," she sighed. Ilend nodded in agreement and led off, drawing his sword. Selene hefted her glaive and followed, once again summoning her light.

A doorway led into another, smaller room that looked much the same as the old one; the statues were in more advanced stages of decay, and there were no purple flames, but mostly it was the same old ruin. Ilend and Selene spotted the lone inhabitant at exactly the same time."Take him from the left," ordered Ilend, himself moving towards the right of the undead Blade that was now leering at each of them in turn. Its blank eye sockets seemed to be gateways to a blackness darker than that of the darkest night.

"Wouldn't we be better off if I just blasted him with a few fireballs?" asked the battlemage, breaking 'eye' contact with the skeleton.

"Yes, it would be," grated Ilend from behind his raised shield. "Go on. I was just getting out of the danger zone by circling around to his right."

"With pleasure," muttered Selene as she threw out her left hand. A fireball blossomed from each fingertip, streaking towards the Blade as it turned to face the bigger threat. Small dark clouds seemed to form around the skeleton's forearm as it held up a hand. This cloud grew and expanded, sucking in the fireballs without a trace. The Blade lowered its hand and kept up its calm gaze as though nothing had happened.

"What the f-" Ilend was cut off by the Blade spinning and sprinting towards him. The dai-katana it was wielding in both hands darted for his skull with unnerving speed. Ilend barely got his shield up to block in time, and the force of the blow shook his entire body as he staggered back. The Blade attacked again, only to be thwarted once again by the broad Skingrad shield. Sensing danger, it span and parried Selene's slash before replying with a jab of its own that left a shallow cut across the half-elf's stomach. An instant slower in her dodge and she'd have been gutted. Ilend charged in to attack, only to have his attack foiled by the skeleton twisting its arms behind its head and blocking his swing without even looking at it. Seconds later, Ilend was flying over its head, having been grabbed and thrown with strength that was incomprehensible for something without any muscle. The breath was knocked out of him as he landed heavily, but Selene charged the skeleton and bought him enough time to regain his footing.

The undead Blade watched them silently as they regrouped, both beginning to pant from the exertion. The skeleton before them had no such mortal weaknesses. Selene tried a few bolts of lightning, but they, too, were absorbed by the ancient, mysterious magic that the Blade wielded. Ilend forced his impatience down; impatience could kill. " Occupy it while I get around to its rear," he told Selene. "Use your range against it."

"Easy for you to say," muttered the half-elf. "I think it can understand us, you know."

Ilend merely shrugged in response and started sidestepping around the edge of the chamber, always keeping the Blade in sight. Its eye sockets swung from staring at Selene to him and back. The half-elf approached cautiously, glaive held in one hand like a short spear. As she surged forward and swung, the skeleton was ready, ducking under the whirling steel pole and slashing up at her chest. The air was forced from the battlemage's lungs as the dai-katana impacted on her chainmail; if she hadn't stepped back, the attack would have penetrated. Ilend took the opening and charged forward, smashing his shield into the skeleton's back and crashing down on top of it.

Selene stepped forward uncertainly, unable to do anything as Ilend frantically attempted to pin down his opponent. The Blade simply slipped out of his grasp and slammed its fist into his chin, the force of the blow stunning him and sending him flying over its head and across the chamber. Selene got her opening and rushed in, stabbing down with her glaive and luckily slicing through its arm just below the shoulder. Hissing in what appeared to be anger, the skeleton rolled free, tearing its right arm off in the process. Unable to handle a dai-katana effectively with just one arm left, it fell back under Selene's assault, struggling to contain the sheer reach of the glaive. Blocking one attack by the blade, it was unable to recover quickly enough to prevent its dai-katana being ripped from its hands by the haft of the weapon as Selene spun it. Seconds later, the glaive's sharp end was buried in its skull.

Ilend was groaning and pulling himself slowly upright, rubbing his chin. "Bastard had a punch on him," he snarled. "And bare knuckles bloody hurt." Selene gripped his elbow and helped him to his feet, staring into his eyes long enough to be satisfied that there'd been no lasting effects. "Might want to get that cut healed," observed Ilend, straightening and poking the gash running across Selene's stomach. She grunted; in the heat of battle the pain had barely been noticeable, and it was still easily ignored now; it wasn't deep.

As she healed herself, Ilend frowned and took a few steps towards the fallen skeleton. A glow told him where the ghost was coalescing into a coherent form. He sheathed his blade and waited, letting his shield drop to his side. Selene stepped up beside him to watch, typically leaning on her glaive like it was a walking staff. Both stayed silent as the shape settled into the form of a transparent Redguard, his features anonymous behind his Blades armour. He looked around him in confusion, his blank eyes struggling to focus on the two mortals in front of him.

"My name..." the apparition paused, apparently finding it hard to use his voice after centuries of dormancy. "My name is... was Casnar. One of the Emperor's finest. We were sent to..." his voice trailed off as he appeared to remember something. "The taint must be cleansed!" A note of urgency entered his weak voice and he turned without a glance backwards, walking back down the passage they've come from. Ilend and Selene exchanged glances, then followed him.

* * *

Gnaeus relished the jolt that ran through his arm as he chopped a skeleton's spine in two. After thirty-five years of sitting on his arse doing nothing, it seemed that whoever was in control of his destiny seemed intent on throwing all the combat he should have had in those years at him at once. He was glad of such an opportunity; he'd missed the thrill of battle. As the two halves of the skeleton in front of him crumbled to the ground, the old Imperial span in time to catch another undead warrior's broadsword with his own. He punched the skeleton in front of him, snapping its skull back and opening it up for the same attack that had destroyed its companion mere seconds ago.

Looking around after severing its spine, Gnaeus noted that the melee was over; Aerin was grimacing as she wrapped a strip of cloth around a deep gash on her forearm – she was rationing potions – and Saliith was wrenching his sword from where it had embedded itself in the wall after he'd stabbed a ghost. According to the Argonian, fighting incorporeal enemies with normal weapons was completely different due to the complete lack of resistance offered to the blade, yet tears and slashes appeared in the undead all the same. As long as they all died their second death, no-one cared how it happened.

"How long have we been down here now?" asked Aerin bitterly as she finished tying her rudimentary bandage. "Two hours, three?"

"Doesn't matter," snorted Gnaeus, casting a contemptuous glance at the Bosmer. "As long as we've got a job to do, then we do it. At least you're smart enough to be saving your arrows."

Aerin cast a sidelong glare at the Imperial as she brushed the loose strands of her auburn hair out of her eyes. "That's because there's nothing ta use em on," she growled. "Skeletons are hard to hit and they just go right through wraiths and ghosts." She sighed and shook her head. "How's the burn, Saliith?" she asked the Argonian.

"Hurting, but manageable," reported Saliith shortly. A wraith had sent a powerful frost spell at his leg earlier, and the weak potion he'd chosen to use had only been strong enough to reduce the resulting burn, which had afflicted his skin as well as his scales.

"Enough wasted time," grunted Gnaeus, jerking his head towards the doorway on the far side of the long chamber. After hours of fighting through the ruin, the rooms and passageways were all starting to look the same, with their grey stone walls and broken architecture. "Come on, lizard, get up front. Don't expect this old man to do all the work." Saliith moved into the lead without complaint. The ex-hermit had made it quite clear that any complaints in their current situation would result in a blade in the gut. While Saliith was almost definitely a better warrior then him, at the moment they simply couldn't afford to lose anyone.

"Five skeletons," warned the gladiator moments before charging at them with both swords raised. As he expertly took apart two of them, Gnaeus blocked one's battleaxe before kicking it in the pelvis. The flesh may have decreased the vulnerability of that position, but the skeleton still staggered back in an effort to stay balanced. Gnaeus simply moved in and decapitated it. Aerin had engaged the skeleton wielding the smallest weapon, a mace, and was dancing around it as it unsuccessfully attempted to hit the flighty Bosmer with the heavy weapon. Darting to its rear, she sank her shortsword into its spine, forcing it all the way through before twisting it free, snapping the undead warrior's back in the process. The last remaining enemy stood no chance against the combined attacks of Gnaeus and Saliith and fell quickly.

"Why couldn't we have a spellslinger with us?" grumbled Aerin as she peered into the shadowed corners. "They'd have made this so much easier..."

"You clearly can't count," snorted Gnaeus. "We only have two competent mages. There are three groups. Never did think you had much of a brain."

Aerin shot him a heated glare that might have weakened the knees of a lesser man. "Ilend can cast a few spells when he has to," she told him angrily.

Gnaeus, deliberated, then finally chose to dignify that statement with an answer: "Yeah, I'd love to see him attempt to cast his way out of a paper sack," he observed. "Face it, girl; your bedwarmer would be laughed out of the Arcane University even if he showed up with a dozen rings of fortification magic and the Necromancer's Amulet."

Aerin's furious rebuttal was cut short by Saliith. "Skeletons inbound with two ghosts," he warned, taking up a position next to the doorway with both shortswords at the ready. Gnaeus joined him on the opposite side, while Aerin stood further back. The first skeleton to lurch through the doorway was tripped by Saliith. Aerin immediately pounced on it and stabbed it repeatedly until it stopped moving. The next two skeletons stood better chances and bought their comrades time to get through before being killed. Gnaeus and Aerin immediately leapt at the skeletons, drawing them away from Saliith who was attempting to close with the ghosts while avoiding their debilitating spells. He succeeded in reaching them and slashed at one; there was no resistance to his blade, but a deep gash still formed in the ghost's ethereal torso. A distant, hissing scream pricked Saliith's ears as the ghost wailed its last lament and melted away into ectoplasm.

As Saliith turned to deal with the last ghost, Aerin and Gnaeus were attacking the last skeleton, who seemed to be a cut above the rest, wielding its claymore with agility and precision. Gnaeus was already bleeding from a cut on his thigh, so it was Aerin doing most of the legwork, darting around and attracting the skeleton's attention so Gnaeus could attack its flanks. They eventually wore it down and gifted it with a second death. The old Imperial grimaced and tore a potion from his belt. "Three left," he grunted before swallowing the contents. His tunic had bloodstains in two other places where he'd been wounded in past fighting. The fighting was taking its toll on all three.

"What are the chances of some of the others catching up with us?" wondered Saliith as he fingered a new, less serious burn on his forearm.

"Don't even think about it," growled Gnaeus as he peered through the doorway. No approaching enemies. "If they join us, that's a bonus. Assume we're on our own until we find that bloody ghost. Now move up." The Bosmer and the Argonian fell in behind him as he led off. The passageway was darker than most of the similar corridors they'd traversed thus far, so he kept the pace slower than normal, occasionally running his free hand along the rough stone walls.

The corridor split up ahead. One doorway led to a dead end where the ceiling had caved in, while the other led to a stairway leading deeper down into the catacombs. Upon descending it, they found themselves in a room looking largely the same as the rest of the ruin. The three of them entered cautiously, heads swivelling to cover all the corners of the room. Because their guard was up, the undead Blade waiting just behind the doorway did not gain the element of surprise as it leapt for them. Saliith rasped a warning as he met the Blade's katana with both his shortswords, stepping back to contain the skeleton. He got the edge of its shield in his ribs for his trouble and staggered back, winded.

Aerin stepped between the two to stop the Blade gutting her friend and in return got the katana effortlessly dispatching her guard and cutting deep into her chest a few inches below her heart. Kicking the stunned Bosmer off its blade and ignoring the blood splashing over its white bones, the skeleton turned quickly to fend off a determined attack by Gnaeus, who found himself comprehensibly outfought by the stronger, quicker undead Blade. As Aerin weakly wrenched all her remaining potions from her belt and started twisting off the caps, Saliith rejoined the fight. Unable to defend against two warriors at once, the skeleton went on the offensive, swinging violently at Gnaeus and slicing the old man's shoulder open. It turned quickly to deny Saliith's exploitation of the opening and so escaped with only a few chips missing from some of its ribs. The Blade's riposte knocked one of the shortswords from Saliith's grasp. Spinning across the chamber, the weapon clattered into the floor and slid along the stones until the hilt hit Aerin, who had just finished downing her last potion. Fully healed, the Bosmer snatched the daedric shortsword, threw it back to Saliith and rushed back into the fray.

A strong slash from Gnaeus shattered the skeleton's left elbow, and its shield clattered loudly to the floor along with most of its forearm. Capitalising, Saliith and Aerin both darted in and slashed at its spine, breaking it in two places. The undead Blade slowly toppled over and broke into several pieces.

"Been a long time since I've had this much blood on me that's my own," observed Gnaeus, glaring down at the blood, both wet and drying, that stained large parts of his normally brown tunic. He took a potion from his belt and gulped it down, sighing at the tingling sensation in his ruptured shoulder as the healing magic got to work. Saliith angrily tapped his scale armour, where the Blade's shield had left a small dent. Aerin was frowning down at the blood staining the front of her cuirass from where it had leaked from her severe wound, and realised that there was quite a lot of it. No wonder she was feeling a bit weak.

Movement attracted all their attention as the ghost slowly formed in front of them, standing where the skeleton had fallen. Gnaeus glared at him as the Nordic-looking spectre turned to face them. "Took you a while to give up, didn't it?" spat the Imperial.

"The fog... it is cleared," whispered the Blade, drawing a harrumph from the irritable old Imperial facing him. "The curse... it must be lifted. I must go." The Nord walked off quickly without ever glancing at the three mortals who'd just saved him.

"We save his wretched unlife and he doesn't even stop to thank us?" spluttered Gnaeus, staring at the ghost's retreating back. "The nerve. If I'd have known his manners were that bad..." he glanced at his two comrades, both of whom were trying and failing to hide their laughter. Growling under his breath, the Imperial rammed his broadsword back into its scabbard and followed the ghost out of the room. He was taking a different route to the one they'd used coming, but after centuries of roaming around, Gnaeus expected him to be able to find the shortest way back to the nexus.

After leading them through various twisting corridors and completely ignoring the handful of skeletons that the mortals following him had to dispatch, the undead Nord came to a long, narrow room and crossed it without hesitation, heading for one of several doorways at the far end. The mortals followed somewhat more cautiously, but there were no enemies evident. "Much more walking, and my knees are going to start cracking," muttered Gnaeus to himself as they increased their pace.

The fireballs came out of nowhere. They flashed through the air silently, curling around the corners of the chamber before streaking towards the trio, who had barely a second to respond. Saliith, the most agile, put all his strength into leaping out of the way, but even he was caught in the blast and thrown violently against a pillar. The wind was knocked out of him, so he couldn't even give voice to his pain as his ribs bent and cracked. Groaning, he struggled to his feet, wincing as various burns down his side made themselves evident. Gnaeus was lying still some distance away, his ragged breathing coming in gasps, while Aerin was deathly silent, with blood already starting to pool around her head where it had struck a pillar. The ghost of the Nordic Blade had long since departed.

As if to mock the wounded Argonian and his comrades, the lich slowly unveiled itself, standing in the centre of the room. Long-dead skin hung off decaying flesh and exposed bones as filthy hands curled themselves around a wooden staff. Robed in black, the lich slowly turned to regard Saliith with dark, dead eyes that somehow seemed even emptier than the eye sockets of skeletons. Cracked lips parted to reveal broken teeth as the lich whispered a few words in a forgotten tongue, its voice distant and malevolent. Saliith felt fear, greater than any fear he'd ever felt, in the Arena or otherwise. Turning and running for his life had never felt so attractive, but he set his jaw and stood his ground. If he was going to die, he would die like a man, not a coward.

Roaring in defiance, the gladiator dashed towards the lich, both swords drawing back to strike. The undead simply batted a hand at him in a casual motion. A fist of air slammed into Saliith, sending him flying into the wall once more, hitting it so hard he bounced twice before finally settling on the ground. As he struggled to recover, the lich walked over and span its staff in a vicious arc, catching the Argonian on the side of his jaw. He was sent sprawling onto his face, blood dribbling between his teeth. Toying with him, the lich planted its staff under him and rolled him over before sending lightning coursing through his body. The pain was too immense for Saliith to do anything, even scream, as his body writhed and contracted. A cruel smile spread over the lich's ravaged face as it ended the spell. The Argonian's breath was coming in frantic gasps, but he found time to spit out a few final words: "Get it over with, you bastard."

* * *

"Stay back," warned Gorgoth as they approached the chamber up ahead. "It is not going to be easy. I would rather not have another person to protect from a lich that I know nothing about." The use of magicka had been so strong that Gorgoth had detected it two minutes ago, shortly after releasing the ghost of an undead Blade, Alain. Leaving the Breton to find his way back to the nexus, Gorgoth and Lurog had immediately diverted.

"I understand. We've been in this situation before," grunted Lurog, leaving his mace loosely hanging by from his hand. He would be nothing more than a witness; against a lich, he had little going for him. Blood King had already been returned to Gorgoth's back; this battle would be fought with magicka, not with steel.

Gorgoth strode into the room and immediately sent ball lightning flying towards the lich, who was standing over Saliith, seemingly ready to deliver a killing blow. Gorgoth's attack forced it to teleport out of the way, reappearing on the far side of the chamber. Instantly, Gorgoth knew he was up against a powerful force; even for a mage of his power teleportation to a point that hadn't been predefined by a Mark was difficult and very costly. Several fireballs exploded from the glowing tip of the lich's staff and homed in on Gorgoth, who ignored them: they would impact harmlessly on the shield that he'd created around himself.

Raising both hands, Gorgoth sent crude fireballs from one while sending more complex Mysticism magic from the other. The Dispel magic he was wielding would dispel any magic it came into contact with, such as any shields or resistances the lich would have active. His enemy reflected the fireballs, but could do nothing about the Mysticism, which was splitting up into numerous threads, each one deadly to a mage. Gorgoth ignored his own fireballs flying back at him and sent yet more magic at the lich, feeling his reserves noticeably draining faster as he sent multiple Silence spells at his opponent. Unable to defend, and already low on magicka, the lich hissed in rage as its main weapon was taken away from it. Snarling, it lowered its staff and sent a stream of fire towards the warrior-shaman, a futile gesture of resistance. Several bolts of lightning shattered its rotting body.

As Lurog entered the room behind him, Gorgoth focused on what he'd been ignoring so far. Paying no attention to the scorched, cracked stones below his feet – his shield hadn't spared the area around him from the lich's spells – he instead hurried over to his three fallen comrades. Saliith was struggling to rise to his feet and clearly wasn't in danger of immediate death, so Gorgoth ignored him and settled into a crouch next to Aerin. Her left arm had been severely burnt, along with parts of her face, and her skull had been cracked open on a pillar. Her pale face – paler than usual – was a stark contrast to the blood splattered over her and the surrounding area. The Orc removed his gauntlet and found a pulse before sending his most powerful healing magic through her body. He could not restore the lost blood, but he could hold off the effects of blood loss temporarily while she produced more.

The Bosmer's eyes slowly flickered open, focusing on the Orc looking down at her. Satisfied that she was alive, Gorgoth moved on to Gnaeus before she could say anything. A heavy lump on his temple told him where the Imperial had been knocked out; the rest of the damage were severe burns that would be painful but not life-threatening. Gorgoth healed them all then slapped Gnaeus to wake him up. The Imperial shook his head violently to clear it before his expression turned sour at the sight of Gorgoth. Not giving him an opening to make one of his normal caustic remarks, Gorgoth straightened and looked over at Saliith. Lurog had him on his feet and was probing his ribs. By the look of pain on the Argonian's face, several were broken.

As Gorgoth healed the gladiator, Aerin slowly got to her feet, clutching the blood-smeared pillar for support. "Not that I'm complaining, big guy, but... how'd ya find us?" she asked, her words slightly slurred.

"Powerful mages can sometimes sense powerful discharges of magicka," responded Gorgoth as he made sure Saliith had no further injuries. "And that lich was being free with what he was throwing at you. I knew there was one in this ruin."

"A warning of what to expect might have been nice of you," snarled Gnaeus, rising to his feet. Large parts of his tunic were burnt and tattered, but the Imperial himself seemed unaffected. "Can't really expect a bloody greenskin shaman to be condescending, though, can we?"

"From someone of your age and intelligence, I would have expected you to know how dangerous a lich is," responded Gorgoth. "Let's get moving," he continued, ignoring Gnaeus's angry muttering. "I know the way back to the nexus. Time is valuable."

He led them through passage after passage, all of which looked the same but were clearly signposted by piles of bones and streaks of ectoplasm. It took a long time for them to get back to the nexus; the ruin was even bigger than he'd thought. The temporary fortification magic he'd added to his healing spell seemed to be helping Aerin; she was keeping up easily, despite the blood loss. Fortunately, the worst fighting was now probably over. A handful of skeletons were dispatched by Lurog without ceremony as they made their way back to the nexus of Sancre Tor.

Ilend and Selene were already waiting for them. Their reactions differed; Selene closed her eyes and sighed with relief at the sight of them, while Ilend's eyes widened and he immediately started forward. "Is that all _your_ blood?" he asked Aerin incredulously, waving his hand at the dark crimson stains on her leather armour.

"Skeleton's don't bleed, knuckle-head," barked Gnaeus in response. "Don't see what you're complaining about. She's the picture of health, and just as annoying as ever."

Gorgoth ignored all of them and started down the steps to the platform above the murky water. A door was just visible in the shadows below them. His comrades started to follow him, but Gorgoth held up a hand. "No. I do not know what the Underking's taint has done. I go alone." He started off down the second flight of stairs, allowing no argument. The heavy stone door in front of him grated across the ground as he opened it with some effort. After stepping through, it slid shut behind him.

The Tomb of the Reman Emperors was everything Gorgoth had expected. The first rulers of what would later be known as the Second Empire were interred here, in fine tombs bearing inscriptions of their deeds in life. Light from several magical torches cast flickering shadows over the heavy stone walls, held up by ornate pillars. Down the centre of the tomb was a passageway leading to what seemed to be a wall of solid darkness. Merely looking at it made Gorgoth's skin prick with discomfort. The Underking's evil was powerful this close to his lasting legacy.

Standing at attention were the four dead Blades, two on each side of the steps leading down to the narrow passage. As one, they knelt, grounding the tips of their ethereal katanas in the ground and bowing their heads towards the dark barrier blocking entry to the far tomb. The barrier flickered and wavered, specks of grey appearing in the darkness as whatever power the Blades wielded started countering that of the Underking. Gorgoth calmly folded his arms and waited.

Light began to fracture the black curtain in several places, gradually growing to create another all, this one of light so pure and bright that Gorgoth had to shield his eyes. It gradually decreased in intensity until it had faded from existence. In its place was a clear passageway leading to one last tomb: that of Reman III, the last of the Reman Emperors.

The four Blades straightened and sheathed their katanas. All looked to Gorgoth. He looked each one in the eyes. Four emotionless gazes returned his own. "Your oaths have been fulfilled," declared the warrior-shaman. "Depart to Aetherius. May your gods look kindly upon your souls." He knew Malacath would not; they had failed centuries ago. The ghosts simply nodded – Gorgoth thought he felt a sense of relief become tangible in the room for a moment - and slowly disappeared, fading into nothingness. Gorgoth was left alone with the remnants of one of the most powerful dynasties to ever have lived.

His heavy footsteps echoed throughout the tomb as Gorgoth descended the steps and started off down the passage. A pedestal entered his vision in the centre of the small chamber ahead of him, in front of the sarcophagus holding the remains of Reman III. Walking up to the pedestal, the Orc stopped and looked down at the cuirass once worn by Tiber Septim.

The steel breastplate was ornate, with heavy engraving on the thick metal plates. It was no ceremonial piece, however; dents and scratches showed where General Talos had got personally involved in his many wars. A dark crimson streak across the area just below where his right armpit would have been was an interruption of the silver colour of the steel, which, oddly for armour that had lain untouched for centuries, looked in good condition. Gorgoth reached out and picked up the cuirass, judging its weight. Talos had been it a strong man, it seemed.

He had what he came for. Without giving anything else a second glance, Gorgoth turned and headed for the exit. As he'd so often reminded his comrades, time was valuable. He had no time to be paying respects to men who had lived centuries ago, however powerful or honourable they might have been.

His companions fell silent as he ascended from the tomb. The only sound was the ringing of his boots on the stone and the gentle lapping of the water below them. He stopped just in front of them, looking down at the cuirass in his hands. "It's not often you get to touch something that belonged to an Aedra," observed Ilend, looking at the armour with appreciation. "Looks like Tiber Septim knew his armour, at least."

"The armour is an accessory," responded Gorgoth. His finger tapped the blood staining the front of the breastplate. "This is what we came here for. Just another ingredient. Come on. The Underking may be gone, but I doubt it would be wise to linger here until nightfall." They parted to let him through then fell in behind the Orc as he led them out of Sancre Tor. No longer would it be a place of darkness.

* * *

**A/N: It should be noted that today, the 28th of June, marks the anniversary of this thing. I'm REALLY hoping it won't take another year to complete, but I'll admit I don't really want it to end... still, it's come a long way already. And, for lack of a more suitable opportunity, it might be a good time for me to give special thanks to those two reviewers who have actually reviewed ALL the chapters so far: Arty Thrip and An Underpaid Critic. Your input has been highly valued (well, most input has been highly valued, but you've given more of it). For the rest of my readers: keep reviewing, or if you haven't already reviewed, start reviewing. They're much appreciated.**


	32. The Nature of Vengeance

**A/N: Six reviews for my last chapter is the lowest for a while yet. I'm sure some of you have good excuses, but not all of you. I'm writing this, and you're reading, so it's up to you to make some form of input as well. I'm not about to review myself, am I? Review. It doesn't take long, but it makes the author of the fic you've just read very happy.**

**Underpaid Critic: Damn right I'm proud. I'll be prouder still when this is finished. And that is actually a good quote... also, you really are underpaid, given that you've gone off and reviewed that old oneshot of mine. Everything you say there is right, and bear in mind that it was written some time ago, when I was suffering a distinct lack in ability. Still, if I rewrite it again, your advice will be valued. As always. It's times like this I wish I could write you proper review replies...  
**

**Random Reader: It's good to hear that. Ironic that you've become attached to my characters, because this is a character development chapter... maybe you'll get even MORE attached? Also, it's funny that you should mention Callia... look out for her in this chapter.**

**Maverick77: I hate Sancre Tor as well. Fortunately, writing it wasn't as bad as playing it.**

**Before I end my spiel and let you get on with reading this chapter, I'd first like to attempt to convey my immense gratitude to Arty Thrip for lending her time to beta read this one chapter, as well as providing inspiration for some of it. Words are inadequate to show my gratitude, so I'll just say thanks for helping make this chapter the best it can be. Anyhow, on with said chapter...**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-two: The Nature of Vengeance**

It took three days for the group to return to Cloud Ruler Temple. On the way back they left a chain of streams and ponds with bloodied water after most of them made some effort to wash their crimson-stained clothing and armour as they made camp every night. It was midafternoon before they finally reached the foot of the Temple gates, the hooves of the horses crunching through snow that hadn't felt enough boots to become hard-packed. They started to dismount as the massive doors started to swing open, clanking and grinding as the machinery hauled back on the sheer weight of oak and steel. Gorgoth waited for the gap to become sizeable before leading Vorguz up the multitude of steps in the direction of the stables. Tiber Septim's cuirass was secure in one of his saddlebags.

"Where is Martin?" Gorgoth asked the nearest Blade, throwing Vorguz's reins over his shoulder. Ilend darted in to catch them.

"In his chambers," responded the Redguard warming his hands at a brazier. "The Grandmaster just left his quarters, I think, but the Emperor is still there." The warrior-shaman nodded and removed the saddlebag containing the breastplate before letting Ilend lead Vorguz away.

Returning the salutes and nods of the passing Blades with nods of his own, Gorgoth made his way over to the royal quarters. A Blade – this time it was Arcturus Gabinus – was standing guard outside Martin's quarters as usual. Gorgoth greeted him before sharply rapping on the door. Martin's voice bade him enter, and the Orc swung the door open, ducking under the frame and closing it behind him.

The heir to the throne of Tamriel was standing at the window with his arms folded, staring out over the rocky snow-laden foothills of the Jeralls. Martin had changed since Gorgoth had first met him. He was still wearing the simple, tattered dark blue robe that he'd worn in Kvatch, but everything about the Imperial was now... harder. Not just his body, but also his eyes. The old priest had gone, replaced with something stronger, because a priest could not have become the Emperor of Tamriel.

His general demeanour, however, had not changed much. "It is good to see you again, Gorgoth," he greeted. He was being genuine; the Orc could tell that Martin despised lying as much as he did. "Do you have the armour?" He'd clearly learnt to dispense with small-talk and quickly get to the heart of the important matters.

Gorgoth responded by putting his saddlebag down on the heavy oak table and pulling it open before taking out the bloodstained cuirass and placing it between two piles of heavy tomes. Martin eagerly moved over to the other side of the table, looking down at the cuirass with reverence in his eyes. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch the armour, running his fingers over the hard steel, through the blood of a Divine. The former priest looked up at Gorgoth and smiled. "Jauffre will be beside himself when he sees this," he observed, relief and triumph both evident in his cultured voice.

"Probably even happier when you confirm that it won't have to be destroyed in the ritual," responded Gorgoth, casually tossing the saddlebag to the floor and folding his arms.

"No, definitely," agreed the Emperor-to-be, walking over to his chair and motioning for his Blade to do the same. "All we need is that divine blood. If I even thought about destroying it..." a smirk flickered over the heir's face. "Well, the Blades can be as touchy as priests when it comes to relics of Tiber Septim. Maybe even more so."

"It means a lot to them," concurred Gorgoth as he eased himself into an armchair. The padded wood gave only the slightest of protests; it was well-built. "You wanted to talk to me?"

Martin cocked an eyebrow. "How did you know that?" he asked curiously.

"You asked me to sit," explained the Orc, leaning back in the chair and resting his elbows on the arms. "If you were going to just congratulate me then dismiss me, we wouldn't have needed to."

The Imperial sitting across from him smirked slightly before nodding and adopting a neutral expression. "Do you realise that we know exactly who you are?" he asked. His leaning forward slightly betrayed his anticipation, making his otherwise calm demeanour useless.

Gorgoth nodded. "I have no doubts that Renault's network of spies in Orsinium have done their work admirably," he rumbled. "However, there are some things that they will never uncover." He leaned forward slightly. "What is your point?"

Martin sighed heavily and tapped his forehead with a finger. "You know that Jauffre doesn't trust you, of course," he said, his voice somewhat strained. Gorgoth nodded again. "I want to trust you. I need to, but... how can I be sure that you will not betray that trust?"

The warrior-shaman rose slowly and walked over to the window, leaning on the wall as he looked out. "You do not need to trust me," he replied slowly. "You can find another to be your champion. There are many in this fortress who would die many times over for you. There are others in this realm strong enough for the task. You can use them."

Martin was shaking his head. "I can't," he claimed as his shoulders sank slightly. "My father saw something in you. I get the feeling that no-one else would suffice. This is your destiny."

Falling silent, Gorgoth looked out over the Jeralls for a few minutes before responding. The ex-priest waited, his knuckles growing white as he clenched his fists around the end of the arms of his chair. "My word is iron," grunted the Orc. "I will never break it. I swore an oath; the Blades Oath. I would rather die than break my word." Gorgoth turned back to Martin and looked down at the seated Imperial. The heir returned his gaze levelly. "Of course, I could just be saying that," he continued. "You cannot know for sure that I am telling the truth. You cannot know for sure that you can trust me. But that is what trust is." He leaned in closer, meeting Martin's eyes. "And if you do not trust me, you might as well kill me now." A conjured shortsword appeared on Gorgoth's hand, and he held it our hilt-first to the heir.

Martin stood abruptly, looking down at the shortsword before slowly taking it. He gently hefted the weapon in his hand, sighing nervously before forcing himself to be still. "If I killed you, we would all be doomed," he observed. Standing this close to Gorgoth, who overtopped him by a foot, the Imperial had to look up to meet his cold eyes.

"We will be doomed anyway, if you do not trust your champion," replied the warrior-shaman. "At least this way, it would be over with quicker. We would not live a lie until our downfall." Meeting the heir's gaze, Gorgoth could see fear. Fear of losing his champion. Fear of utter defeat. If he lost Gorgoth, defeat would truly be inevitable.

Looking back down at the shortsword in his hand, Martin turned it over in his palm a few times before meeting those cold yellow eyes again. "I might not agree with what you've done in the past," he started, speaking slowly. "But the fact is, knowing you, I doubt we could find anyone better for Tamriel at the moment. You're on our side. We should value that." The Imperial sent dispelling magic through the sword in his hands, and it faded from existence. "Gorgoth, I do not trust you because I'm forced to. I trust you because I want to, no matter what Jauffre says." Conviction lent more strength to his voice than normal. Good for speeches.

"Good." Gorgoth turned and returned to his seat. "I do not trust easily, Martin, but in these times, it is a necessity to trust those at your back. Without that, victory might be impossible. So I have to know that I can trust those who I need to."

"Do you trust me?" asked Martin bluntly as he slowly lowered himself back into his chair.

"Yes." Gorgoth leaned back and studied the Imperial across from him intently. In front of him sat a man whom he might actually come to like. Relief and maybe a hint of satisfaction was evident on his face.

"Good." The future Emperor seemed to think for a few seconds. "Now we've cleared that up, there are quarters just down the hall ready for you. Jauffre protested, but he couldn't really do anything after Renault pointed out that you are, in fact, nobility." He chuckled.

Gorgoth resisted the temptation to smirk.

* * *

"So, how do you know Gorgoth?" asked Ilend as he flopped down in one of the chairs in a small communal area near the Great Hall and started removing his gauntlets. He was eager for a bit of downtime, and after stabling Javelin and Vorguz had made his way over to somewhere comfortable. He always had liked talking to soldiers from other cultures, and Lurog definitely fit the bill. The Orc had eased himself down in a chair next to him – the chairs in this smaller room seemed to be old and tattered but thick – and placed his helmet on a nearby table, shaking his war braids free. His gauntlets soon followed. Across the room, the only other inhabitants – Baurus and Caroline Genis – were having a muted conversation, ignoring the two newcomers.

"Where do I begin?" snorted Lurog in response to the Imperial's question, stretching his legs out in front of him and placing his hands behind his neck. "I've known Gorgoth for years, through thick and thin. There's not many he'd call a friend, so I'm honoured in that way." The Orc closed his eyes and sighed slightly as he rotated his neck, kneading the stiff muscles with his thick fingers. Fingers of sunlight streamed over the Orc's chainmail from the three windows on the far side of the room.

"Yeah, I can tell," smirked Ilend. He emulated the warrior, leaning his head back and pressing his fingers into the muscles. They were badly knotted. He'd have to ask Aerin for another massage at some point. His affliction had been considerably worse and more persistent since Kvatch; it wasn't hard to understand why. "So how'd you meet?"

"The army," said Lurog simply. "He was appointed commander of some heavy cavalry, and I was one of the officers under him." The corners of the Orc's mouth turned up in a small smile, something rarely seen on the face of his comrade. "That was nine years ago now. It's been a while."

"How much fighting have you seen?" inquired the swordsman, idly spinning his dagger around on the arm of his chair.

The veteran soldier chuckled mirthlessly. "More than most men see in a lifetime," he answered dryly. "I've hunted men through mountains, across frozen rivers, through barren wastelands. I've been in a five-thousand strong charge of heavy cavalry. I've fought on foot and left trails of dead behind me. I have raped and murdered my fair share. Yes, I think I've seen a lot of fighting."

"Glad you're on our side," sniggered Ilend. His hand slapped down on his dagger, stopping the motion, and he thrust it back through his sword belt.

"Just keep in mind that some of the Dremora on the other side have been fighting for millennia," replied Lurog. "I think they might just have experience on their side." He snorted. "More than you, for sure. You ever fought in a war before?"

"Not until this one," confirmed the Imperial. "For six years before that, it was just... guard duty. Biggest fight I ever had was with twenty other guardsmen clearing out a den of about thirty bandits." He leaned forward and sighed, a grim smile appearing on his face. "And now I've survived Oblivion twice and regularly find myself fighting for my life as the world falls to pieces." He groaned slightly. "Well, I don't care what Dagon throws at me, I'm getting my revenge."

"Revenge?" asked the Orc, looking sideways at his companion. "Is that what you're fighting for?"

"Damn right it is," growled Ilend. "Revenge for those we've lost. Every time I think of Kvatch, I..." The Imperial's fist clenched around the hilt of his dagger, and a snarl crept onto his face. "I think of the dead, the dying, the homeless. My friends in the Watch, piled up in heaps. Good men dying in agony as they tried to keep their guts in their body. The city I'd served for six years, burning." He grunted and pounded his fist on the wood of the chair arm. "They need someone to get vengeance for them. And I don't care what it takes, but Dagon is going to pay for what he did. Just like the Mythic Dawn paid."

"And how far will your vengeance take you?" queried Lurog. The Orc had leaned further back in his seat and was studying Ilend intently through half-closed eyes.

The swordsman sighed harshly, his breath escaping through his clenched teeth in a hiss. "To whatever end," he muttered. "I don't care how far I have to go, but I'll avenge my comrades no matter what."

"Vengeance is a powerful driving force," admitted the Orc, his meaty finger coming up to stroke his chin. "But let me tell you something." The warrior leaned forward, meeting Ilend's fierce blue-eyed stare. "I've known several good men, good Orcs, over the years. Some lost people close to them, or suffered some other loss. They became so focused on getting revenge that they became too narrow-minded, too focused on one single thing in their lives. They died, each and every single one of them. They failed."

"Well, I'm not going to fail!" barked Ilend, rising to his feet and glaring down at the Orc, ignoring the glance shot at him by Baurus, who was now alone. "I've failed enough already. It stops here." He stepped closer, leaning over Lurog. The Orc didn't blink. "I don't care if getting that retribution burns me up," growled the Imperial, thumping his chest. "I'll get it. If I fail, I don't have much else to live for, do I?"

As the Guildsman slowly stepped back and turned away, Lurog pursed his lips and nodded. "I see now that Gorgoth was right," he mused.

"About what?" demanded the Imperial, his hair swishing through the air as his head violently whipped around to face the Orc once more.

"He says you're a good soldier. Very good with a sword, and very proud. But he also says you've been on edge since Kvatch. Too highly sprung." Over on the other side of the room, Baurus was leaning against the wall with arms folded, attempting to pretend he wasn't eavesdropping, when he was in fact listening to every word. "You can't let it go, can you?" Lurog rose and stepped up to Ilend. Tall for an Imperial, the swordsman could look him directly in the eye.

"If you want me to forget about Kvatch..." started the ex-guardsman, his voice harsh.

"Do not forget," cut in the elf who was leaning closer to him. "But do not obsess over it. You are fixated with the battle, how it happened, what you could have done, your alleged failings." Ilend tried to interrupt, but Lurog rode right over him. "You thought you could have done more. You thought you could have saved more of your comrades, your neighbours. You thought you could have saved them when those gates trapped them on the bridge in Oblivion. You _can't_ let go of those thoughts, those regrets."

"They should be alive right now!" shouted the Imperial, his face slowly turning red as his hand gripped his sword hilt so hard that his knuckles turned white. He didn't even think to ask how the Orc standing in front of him knew all this. "I could have held that gate closed, I could have shouted for them to come back, I could..." he snarled and shook his head. The memories of Kvatch were pressing in on him. Dead eyes staring blankly at him, asking for help that had come too late. He should have been quicker. He should have saved more.

"Yes, you could probably have done better. But you most certainly could have done a lot worse." Lurog had received an extensive report from Gorgoth, and his old comrade agreed with him in that the actions of the entire Kvatch City Watch had been nothing less than heroic. "But that is no reason to burn up. You do not have to die to avenge them. Calm yourself."

"No, damn it, no!" yelled Ilend, grabbing Lurog's chainmail and pulling the Orc's face toward him. "I _have_ to avenge them! Kvatch needs revenge! And who better to do it than me?"

"You _can_ avenge them, but do _not_ let it consume you!" snarled the veteran, shoving the Imperial away from him. "You're no good to them if you're dead!"

The swordsman's angry response was cut off by a strong hand on his shoulder. "I know exactly how you feel, Ilend," said Baurus gently. "You think other people haven't known failure and anger? The Emperor was murdered on my watch. How do you think I felt?"

Ilend's mouth opened and closed like a fish struggling for air. The Blade continued as Lurog looked on with arms folded. "I was angry, yes. I had failed, more than you ever had. I, too, was filled with a desire for revenge." The Redguard sighed and shook his head. "And if I had gone into that Oblivion Gate like that, my chances of getting out alive would have been far lower. Because if you let your desire for vengeance grow so great, it may fuel you, but it can also betray you. You will make rash decisions in anger. You might never give up, but sometimes you have to fall back and regroup to try again differently."

"I survived well enough," countered the Imperial, his anger diminishing somewhat in contrast to his growing desperation. "Through two Oblivion Gates, I survived, not to mention Sancre Tor!"

"In both Gates, you had help. In one, the casualty rate was unsustainable. And in Sancre Tor, you were not fighting minions of Dagon." Baurus sighed. "Ilend, you can't fight for revenge alone. There has to be something else."

"I can't forget Kvatch," snarled Ilend, adopting a hunted expression. "They _need_ me to get payback, I need to atone-"

"You have to let go of the dead, Ilend," persisted Baurus gently. "Their revenge will come in time. But you have to focus on what's left. You can't help the dead, but people are still living that could need your help. What would they say if you threw away your life trying to avenge their dead comrades, who are now beyond help?" The Redguard hesitated, but he had to get this done. "What would Aerin say, I wonder, if you said you were happy to die just for vengeance? Your friends are dead, Ilend. Mourn for the dead, and move on. The living need to be fought for."

For the first time since Kvatch, Ilend allowed himself to think of his dead comrades as just that, instead of martyrs to be avenged. "_Fuck!_" he gasped, throwing himself forward and sobbing unrestrainedly into Baurus's shoulder. The Redguard exhaled slowly and rested his hands on the other man's shoulders. It had happened very similarly to when Captain Steffan had given him this same treatment soon after the Emperor's murder. Lurog exchanged a look with the Blade and nodded before walking over to the doorway and leaning on the doorframe.

After a few minutes, the Imperial shuddered and pulled back, stepping out of Baurus's reach and hastily rubbing at his face. Baurus merely folded his arms and waited patiently. "What... what do I fill that gap with?" asked Ilend uncertainly. "What do I fight for now?"

The Redguard's response was immediate. "The living," he replied. "Those left behind in Kvatch need security. They need to know this won't happen again. It's the same for many all over Tamriel. That's why you need to fight for _them_."

"But..." Ilend sighed shakily. "I could connect with my dead friends. I knew what they would have wanted. But the living... I know barely anyone. Who can I connect with?"

It was Lurog who spoke, his deep voice slowly rolling over from the doorway. "That Wood Elf friend of yours." He turned and looked over at them. "I'm pretty sure you don't want her to die. Keeping her alive is a good reason to fight." The Orc sighed. "Every soldier needs a cause," he muttered, almost too quietly for them to hear.

Ilend took a deep breath, then exhaled shakily, his shoulders slumping. "I'll bet you're thinking the same thing I was thinking when I was in your position," remarked Baurus as a grin started spreading over his face. Ilend glanced at him. "Is this a dry fort?"

The corner of the Imperial's mouth turned upwards. "Well, is it?"

Shaking his head, the Blade started smiling. "Jauffre knows all too well that a dry fort is bad for morale, especially when we're stationed here for months on end," he said. "Come on, I know a place where we can forget all our worries. Steffan actually set it up himself for when it would be needed in times like these dark days." He set off in the direction of the door, motioning for Ilend to join him. Lurog stepped back to let them pass. The Orc had no desire to join them; he wanted to rise early tomorrow to travel to Leyawiin. He donned his own gauntlets and helmet before picking Ilend's up from the table and leaving the room.

* * *

Soon after arrival at Cloud Ruler Temple, Gnaeus had decided that his old bones deserved warming before the roaring fire, and had stolen the nearest armchair along with a recently-published book about military tactics. After a while, Saliith had joined him, the lizard requiring warmth in this cold environment more than most. Wisely, he'd kept his mouth shut, content to relax as his muscles slowly limbered in the heat. Surprisingly, they had the fire completely to themselves; the Blades all seemed to be otherwise occupied or sat far from the hearth. After closing his eyes and breathing slowly for a few minutes, the Argonian leaned forward and started sharpening his shortswords. The old hermit was used to the sound. He'd heard it often enough in the past; it was no distraction.

A larger distraction soon arrived in the shape of Selene, who flopped down into the chair next to him and dug at her forehead with her fingers. She'd predictably exchanged her armour for a more comfortable plain green dress that was starting to look a bit rumpled. The half-elf herself looked drained; the Mysterium Xarxes clearly wasn't easy to work with. "How's translation going?" asked Gnaeus, slightly curious.

"Slowly," sighed Selene, leaning back in her chair and staring blankly up at the high ceiling. "Martin knows more than me; all I had to go on was those books I'd read back on Whiterock. And that thing is..." she repressed a shudder. They both knew how dangerous the Mysterium Xarxes was.

The Imperial closed his book and fingered his goatee. "I don't envy you," he grunted. "It can't be easy." A hint of sympathy had crept into his gruff tone. The battlemage looked at him sideways, somewhat suspiciously. He noticed. "What?" he barked. "I'm allowed to feel a bit of sympathy sometimes; I'm not always a grouchy old hermit, damn it!"

"No, just most of the time," sniggered Saliith, holding his blade up to face-height to examine the edge. Gnaeus shot him a glare, while Selene nodded in agreement, her mouth twisting into a slight grin. There was a flurry of activity as the shifts rotated; Blades previously relaxing in the hall left to go on duty, while those on duty went off to stand down. The Great Hall grew even less populated, and was mostly empty when Captain Steffan wandered in, idly beating his hands together to ward off the chill of the fast-approaching winter.

"Looks like it's going to snow tonight," he announced cheerily to no-one in particular as he walked up to stand in front of the fire to warm himself. Saliith grunted in irritation; lizards and snow did not mix. "A bit of snow brightens up the old fort," continued Steffan, folding his arms and looking around. His eyes fell on the katanas resting on hooks just beside the fireplace, and his face grew more grim as he stepped over, looking at the names inscribed on plaques next to the weapons. He ran his eyes over the newest additions before sighing.

"There'll be more here before this war is over," he muttered, tracing the names of some of the dead Blades with his finger. "Achel... those dogs didn't even give him a proper, honourable death in battle. He didn't even have time to draw his katana." The Imperial pursed his lips to spit, then thought better of it. "Fortis, Achille, Haesmar... heroes, but will they be remembered?" He shook his head. "Probably not by anyone but us. The Blades don't ever get any recognition. It's our nature."

"But they will be remembered, if only by you," interjected Saliith. "That's what matters."

Steffan pursed his lips and nodded before running his finger over another name. "Merildan," he muttered, the sound of her father's name snapping Selene's head up. "I knew your father," continued the Knight Captain, turning his head slightly to observe the half-elf from the corner of his eye. "When I joined thirty-odd years ago, he was a Knight Captain, one of the few elves to reach that rank in this section of the Blades in recent years. Might have been Captain of the Imperial Bodyguard if Jauffre hadn't become Grandmaster." Steffan sighed. "He was a good man, as good as any who have walked Tamriel in this Era. He just saw too much. Uriel rewarded his loyal service and granted his wish when he asked to be released from his oath."

The half-elf shifted in her seat. "What... happened?" she asked hesitantly. "He never talked about it."

Steffan turned and eased himself down into a chair, removing his helmet and laying it on the arm as he brushed his other hand through his short grey hair. "The Imperial Simulacrum had only ended six years ago," he started. "There was still a lot of hardship going around. The Blades were overworked. Your father went all over the place: Iliac Bay, Morrowind, Black Marsh, Valenwood..." the Knight Captain shook his head. "He always was sensitive, and high casualties and the nature of the work took its toll on him. Even the best of us can only take so much." Their eyes were drawn across the Great Hall as Gorgoth stomped across the centre on his way to the canteen. "Well, most of us, anyway," muttered the Blade as his eyes returned to the fire.

"I know exactly what you mean," said Gnaeus, speaking slowly as he seemed to gaze off into the distance, through the flames of the crackling fire. "I had a reputation, I had lordlings begging for my services, but I left and spent thirty-five years on a windy rock with only recluses and a couple of zombies for company." The Imperial sighed. "Money wasn't enough. Fame wasn't enough. When you've seen enough of what I've seen, you know it's time to call it a day." He leaned back in his seat and broke out of his reverie, looking around him. "What?" he barked in response to their apparent interest.

Steffan smirked mirthlessly for a few seconds before his gaze returned to Merildan's katana. "If I can ask... how exactly did he die?" he asked.

Selene hadn't been present when her father had lost his life, so it was up to the only other survivor from Whiterock to answer. "He died well," he stated simply. "He died with blood on his katana, corpses at his feet, and only the enemy in front of him. You can't die much better than that." The old Imperial grunted. "His Breton wife had died a few minutes before. I didn't see her die, but I found her body afterwards. Or at least the parts of it that I could recognise." He shook his head. "Merildan's son died the best death, though."

Steffan quirked an eyebrow. The battlemage opened her mouth, but no words poured forth, so once again it was left to Gnaeus to elaborate. "He took on a Xivilai and two high-ranking Dremora alone to buy her time to grab the Sigil Stone," he explained.

"If I had just moved a bit quicker..." mumbled Selene, her fists tightening on the arms of her chair. Saliith snorted, drawing all eyes to him.

"Hard, isn't it, losing someone you love that much?" he asked, a bitter smile baring his teeth. "You're lucky, you know."

Selene's eyes flashed with anger. "How am I _lucky_?" she growled.

"You didn't kill him yourself," retorted the Grand Champion. "You didn't stick your swords into his stomach and look into his eyes as he died because of what you did." The Argonian sighed and looked away into the fire, his voice growing softer. "He died for you, not because of you."

"Of course," replied the half-elf, narrowing her eyes. "What kind of person would kill their own brother like that?"

Saliith folded his arms. "Me," he claimed. "I killed someone I loved like a sister. What does that make me?" Getting no response – her shocked, suspicious expression spoke volumes – he continued. "Her name was Branwen. I'd known her for years... but we were on opposite teams in the Arena. Out on the sands, your friends become enemies. Others made the decision-" his mouth twisted in distaste "- but it was my blades that did the killing. I killed her." The Argonian looked up, his dark green eyes meeting Selene's lighter green gaze."Your brother died well," he muttered. "Be thankful for that."

She seemed unable to respond, her gaze uncertainly settling on the fire, so the Green Tornado slowly rose. "I need some air," he claimed, making his way out of the Great Hall and heading towards the battlements. Steffan, too, got up and mentioned something about doing the rounds on the new shift before leaving the hall. The last two survivors of Whiterock were effectively left alone with their thoughts.

After a few minutes of silence, Gnaeus exhaled heavily and looked across at the half-elf sitting next to him. Selene was sitting with her chin firmly sitting in the palm of her hand. The flickering firelight was reflected in her shining eyes. He placed his hand over her free hand, his wrinkled, gnarled flesh contrasting with her soft gold-tinted skin. She had few callouses from her work with the glaive, whereas he seemed to have accumulated two lifetime's worth. "Selene..." he began, his voice unusually soft. "If you ever need anything, just remember that I'll be here. I can help you."

She turned to look him in the eyes, her brow furrowed in slight confusion. "Gnaeus, I've known you – or at least known of you – for my entire life, but you've never been..." she paused, searching for words.

"Understanding? Supportive?" The old Imperial smirked. "I wasn't always a grouchy old hermit, you know. And I've been through what you've been through, so... if you need to talk, I'll be around. There is a bit of a caring side left in this old carcass yet."

The half-elf attempted a watery smile. "Thank you," she said, her voice quavering slightly. "It's good to know that I'm not the only one left." She sighed and laid her head against his arm. For the first time since leaving Whiterock, she began to feel truly safe.

* * *

After attempting to seek out Ilend, only to find him downing strong spirits in a secluded part of the fortress in the company of Baurus and Glenroy, Aerin had instead found herself in conversation with three of the female Blades in Cloud Ruler Temple. The secluded communal room was a small one, but it did offer privacy and very comfortable chairs. Dull red sky visible through the windows had made the Wood Elf panic for a second, before realising it was merely dusk and not an Oblivion Gate. She had loosened a few straps on her armour and removed her boots as she sank further down into the pliable armchair, grunting as she put pressure on tired muscles. It would be good to relax on a bedroll tonight.

"So, is Oblivion really as harsh as Callia says it is?" asked Jena Carius as the Imperial lowered herself into a seat opposite Aerin, removing her gauntlets and helmet but leaving the rest of her plate armour untouched. Callia herself looked up from adjusting her sword belt and muttered something under her breath before dropping into another seat and easing the hilt of her katana out of her ribs. "I _do_ believe you, Callia, but sometimes it's good to get a second perspective, you know?"

"Well, it's good to pool experience, given what we're facing," chipped in Caroline Genis, who had already put her booted feet up on a nearby small table and was idly twisting her sheathed dagger between her bare fingertips. A distinctly non-regulation flask appeared to be poking out of the Breton's boot, but none of the other two were paying any attention to it.

"It's not exactly a nice place ta spend a holiday," remarked Aerin, forcing her eyes away from the flask. She could probably have used a bit of a strong drink herself. "A lot of it all looks the same, ta be honest. Dry rock, ridges, bloody big towers, a load of fire... just hope you go through one with someone who knows the way is all I'm saying. And take water. A lot of water."

"I hear you, Aerin," replied Callia, loosening her gauntlets. "I ran out of water in that place. Afterwards, the snow actually looked attractive." The Knight Sister shuddered slightly. Her attention was drawn by a slight clanking; Caroline had removed her pauldrons and was loosening her breastplate. "You know that's against regulations, Lina," Callia told her fellow Blade, though with weary resignation instead of assertiveness in her voice.

"Well, Grandfather shouldn't stick me with a double shift, should he?" snorted Caroline, removing her cuirass entirely and dumping it on the floor before plucking at her sweat-stained vest to unstick it from her body. The Breton stood and started removing her greaves. "What kind of daedra did you meet?" she asked Aerin, distractedly brushing strands of her blonde hair out of her face.

The Bosmer started listing them off, adopting a distant gaze as she remembered. "Scamps, clannfear, daedroths, Atronachs of all varieties, spider daedra, seducers, even the odd hunger," she listed. "And, of course, shit-loads of Dremora. Where do they all come from?"

"From the pits of Oblivion," grunted Jena, running a hand through her dark brown hair. "Their numbers are endless; if they die, they just rise again in some deep, dark place. Can't be pleasant, but it means they have the numbers, and they'll never lose that advantage. Experience, as well."

"The Emperor will see us through," claimed Caroline confidently. "We've got him translating the Mysterium Xarxes, and we've got Gorgoth to deliver the assault where it's needed. We'll win."

Callia snorted. "With that greenskin bastard leading our assault, I wouldn't be so sure," she muttered darkly, examining the edge of her unsheathed dagger to see if the blade was sharp.

"Like him or not, Callia, he's effective," claimed Jena. "I can't think of many people better equipped to kick Dagon in the teeth, at least. You've got to admit we're lucky to have someone as powerful as him."

The short Breton sent her taller Imperial Knight Sister a scathing glare. "Then we should use him as just that," she retorted. "A blunt instrument, a battering ram. We shouldn't welcome him here as... as... one of _us_."

"Hey, you weren't there when Gorgoth effectively saved all of Tamriel, were ya?" asked Aerin angrily, instinctively leaping to the absent Orc's defence. "_He_ saved Martin at Kvatch. _He_ brought him here safely. _He_ brought down the Mythic Dawn. _He_ got the armour out of Sancre Tor. He's got a perfect right to be a Blade, and to be here." Sensing Callia's growing anger, the Wood Elf arched an eyebrow. "What do you have against him?" she asked.

The Breton opened her mouth to retort, but suddenly seemed to realise something and sank back in her chair, her unblinking gaze fixed on the Bosmer across from her. As Caroline was fiddling with a particularly stubborn strap, it was left to Jena to fill the ensuing silence. "All right, ignore Gorgoth for now," she sighed, rubbing at her hazel eyes. "What about you, Aerin? How'd you end up being a part of all this?"

Sighing, the archer wriggled around in her chair, resting her arms behind her head in a movement that would have made Ilend's eyes pop had he been present. "It was Gorgoth who roped me in, mainly," she started. "I was bored with life at the Arena, so when he showed up, I managed to hitch a ride along. Haven't looked back since."

Caroline had now completely shed her armour and was lounging around in her chair, her back resting on one arm and her legs dangling over the other. She shot Aerin a curious glance. "You're an Arena combatant?" she queried, looking the Wood Elf up and down with an analytical gaze.

"Sure am," responded Aerin, grinning slightly. "Warrior rank, ta be precise. I've been there for three and a half years, though I guess I've only ever really been a part timer. It paid the bills."

"Paid the bills?" Callia was getting over her earlier animosity. "Didn't you have parents for that?" She winced as the words left her mouth.

"Nah." Aerin shook her head. "Well, my father was - still is – a trader, but that wasn't for me. I got a job as a dancer in a tavern in the Waterfront while he was doing business. After five weeks, my father found out, demanded I come back with him..." The Wood Elf sighed and shook her head. "He effectively disowned me. I was on my own with barely any money, barely able to afford the rent on me filthy shack on the Waterfront. I got kicked out of the job a week after that. Went to join the Arena; I was desperate, and had a few tips in how ta defend myself. And I knew I was a good shot because I'd been practising for years." A small smile curled her lips. "It was a shock at first, but my father had long left, so I had ta stick with it or starve. Then I found out I was actually pretty good at fighting. I survived, at least." She looked around, abruptly realising that three older, more experienced women were playing close attention to her every word. Suddenly embarrassed, Aerin laughed nervously. "So that's it, basically," she concluded.

"Yeah, we all know how good you are with that bow of yours," remarked Caroline, nodding towards Trueshot, which was propped up against the back of Aerin's chair along with her sword belt. "I didn't think you were green. If you were, I doubt you'd have survived two Oblivion Gates."

"Well, it was still a bloody big shock, ya know?" grunted Aerin. "Besides, I had good leaders both times. Gorgoth just blitzed through and Ilend _does_ have experience. Lots of it."

"Yeah, experience at herding concerned townspeople and fighting bandits," snorted Callia derisively. She held her hands up at the Wood Elf's glare. "Hey, of course he's more experienced _now_, but that's all he came to this war with. As they say in the Arena, the best techniques are passed down by the survivors. People like us are valuable."

"If you say so," muttered Aerin, rolling her eyes skywards briefly. "Either way, I know for a fact I'm seeing this thing through to the end. It started off as a cure for boredom, but now..." She shook her head.

"Now you're like a Blade," claimed Caroline. "Now you know our dedication. Now you know you'll follow Martin to the bitter end." She smirked. "Besides, that's what Ilend's going to be doing, and I doubt you'd leave him alone even if you wanted out."

Jena laughed. "So says Caroline; who in the fortress _doesn't_ know about you wanting to trip Baurus into your bed, apart form the poor sod himself?" she asked, a delighted, triumphant grin splitting the Imperial's face. Caroline blushed and muttered something under her breath. Aerin laughed, and even Callia smirked. "Well, the entire fortress wishes you the best of luck, but good luck prising him away from fanatically protecting Martin," continued Jena, ruthlessly twisting the knife.

Caroline smiled sheepishly and waved a dismissive hand. "All right, Jena, you've got a lot of choice," she grinned. "Who would _you_ pick in this fort?"

"Hey, I've only been here for a year. I'm still weighing up the options," responded Jena, laughing again. "Give me a chance."

Smirking, Caroline rose to her feet, emulated immediately by her Imperial comrade. The movement highlighted their respective heights; the Breton was taller than Jena, who was short for an Imperial. "I'm going to go get some sleep," announced Caroline. "_Alone_," she grated in response to Aerin's sniggering. "You've got to be well-rested if you're fighting Dagon every day. Or at least waiting to fight him." Shaking her head, she gave a half-salute to each of the three before putting her boots back on and leaving the room.

"Shouldn't she be taking her armour?" inquired Aerin, looking sideways at the plate armour strewn across the floor.

"There's only one person in this fortress who leaves her armour lying around like that," responded Callia, stretching out in her chair. "It'll get back to her soon enough. Probably along with a lecture from Steffan, maybe even Jauffre. I doubt she'll listen."

"And here I was thinking discipline here would be tighter than the outfit I used ta wear when dancing," muttered Aerin.

"It's not the Legion, Aerin," pointed out Jena, sinking back down into her seat. "We're more close-knit here. We know exactly what we have to do. Foibles can be overlooked more often as long as you perform when the time comes. And every single one of us knows that when that time comes, we'll rise to the task. We're Blades." Pride was prevalent in her voice. "If Dagon wants to take Martin, he'll have to kill every single one of us first."

Aerin smiled. "Good."

* * *

Gorgoth's new quarters – three doors down from Martin's – were fitting for his proper station: luxurious without being extravagant. Thick carpets adorned the floors of both the bedroom and the exterior chamber, and large windows gave him a good view of the sun setting to the west. The wood in the cabinets and bookshelves lining the walls was fine mahogany, and the chairs were firm but comfortable, easily capable of taking the weight of a heavily-armoured Orc. Gorgoth, however, had spared the chairs any torment by removing his armour, stripping down to his thick vest and trousers.

He was at that moment reclining in one of two armchairs nearest the windows and looking at the sun go down. The warrior-shaman was completely still, barely even blinking. His thought was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. "Come," he rumbled, not taking his eyes off the red-gold horizon.

Captain Renault entered, closing the door behind her. "You wanted to talk to me?" she asked, somewhat advancing to a point halfway between Gorgoth and the door. His back was mostly to her.

"Sit," he commanded, motioning for her to take the chair next to him. She did so, her blue eyes watching him suspiciously as she removed her helmet and swept her long brown hair back from her face. "I realise that it's not exactly common for a Knight Captain to come at a Knight Brother's command," he observed.

"I treat you as the Hero of Kvatch," responded Renault emotionlessly. "That might soon change if you poke fun at me."

"I do not know fun, Renault." Gorgoth slowly turned his head to meet her gaze. After several seconds, she blinked and dropped her gaze to his throat. That was longer than most people lasted, unless they froze in place. "I want to know two things. Firstly, it would be beneficial to me to learn your first name."

The Breton raised an eyebrow. "And how could that possibly help you?" she asked, leaning forwards.

"Knowledge is power," said Gorgoth simply. He said nothing more.

Renault sighed before removing her gauntlets and placing them on the nearby small table, beside her helmet. She leaned back in her chair. "Cassandra," she told him. "What else did you want to know?"

The Orc was silent for a few moments, looking out over the Jeralls as the last sliver of sun disappeared beneath them, ushering in the twilight. He glanced across at the Knight Captain. "You have a reliable network of informers in Orsinium, correct?" he asked. She nodded. "What is the situation there? How is the Oblivion Crisis affecting Orsinium?" In his voice there was a hint of something Renault had never thought she'd detect in Gorgoth gro-Kharz: worry.

"The war is going well," she reassured him. "The Orcs are displaying excellent organisation. Warbands are already scouring the area, closing any Gate they find. Casualties vary, but they are on top of the situation." The Breton closed her eyes and sighed. "Out on the plains near Sharoth, however... Several Great Gates opened. There was a climatic battle. An alliance of Breton states lost several thousand men and only closed some of the gates. Then..." She shook her head. "King Gortwog sent an army to close the remainder, claiming that all mortals were in this together. Ironic that it took something like this to improve relations between the Orcs and the Bretons."

Gorgoth's emotionless expression did not change. "Fighting in that region will continue after this Crisis," he predicted. "It is our nature, and theirs. There is far too much politics for there not be a war at some point." His eyes went back to looking out of the window. "It is good that Orsinium is safe. Good that they have the problem under control..." his voice trailed off, and he started to resemble a statue once again.

The Knight Captain shifted in her chair. "Is that all you wanted to know?" she inquired.

Gorgoth nodded. She rose and replaced her helmet and donned her gauntlets, turning to leave, but he raised a hand first. "You know of most of my past?" She turned to look at him, a curious blend of interest and apprehension playing over her features. The warrior-shaman's head swivelled to fix her with his amber gaze.

"Yes," confirmed Renault slowly.

"How many have you told?"

"Just Jauffre, Steffan and Martin." She folded her arms. "Where are you going with this?"

"It will go no further," rumbled Gorgoth, standing and towering over her. "There are too many people in the world already who know about my past. It is something I will only tell to those whom I trust. Do not spread it." His amber eyes, blazing with a cold light, bored into her skull. Renault found herself nodding, her mouth suddenly dry as she realised that the warrior-shaman might very well kill her if she refused. He nodded, satisfied, and returned to his seat. Renault remained planted to the spot for a few seconds before hurriedly leaving. Gorgoth remained still, looking out over the Jeralls, deep in thought.

* * *

Night fell over Cloud Ruler Temple. Many of the Blades made for the barracks, while those on night shift gathered their cloaks tighter around them and edged slightly closer to the braziers. In the Royal Wing, Martin watched the door close behind Selene as she left and started to prepare for rest after a hard day's translation. Further down the hall, Gorgoth removed all his clothing and eased himself down into his bed, listening for any creaking. There was none; it was a large double bed, made of sturdy wood that could take his weight easily. The Orc found a position in which he was comfortable and started breathing slowly, deeply. Sleep rose up to take him into its warm, dark depths.

As Gorgoth fell asleep, a certain Breton in the West Barracks was having trouble doing exactly the same thing. Callia simply couldn't rest; even while wearing nothing more than her underwear, she was still too hot, and no method of lying seemed comfortable enough on the simple bedroll. The Blade next to her – it might have been Roliand – was sleeping deeply, and she didn't want to wake him with excessive moment. Her fingers closed around the hilt of the small, curved dagger she always kept under her pillow. Sitting up, the Knight Sister slowly drew it out from under the pillow, testing her thumb against the naked blade. Still sharp.

Callia snarled quietly before standing, clumsily pulling on her trousers as she slowly made for the exit. Outside, she shivered as the cold night air impacted on her mostly bare torso, but ignored it; she wouldn't be outside long. Implying to a curious Glenroy that she was visiting the nearby outhouse, the Breton instead made straight for the Royal Wing, the dagger held low in her clenched fist. Fortunately for her, the door to Gorgoth's room was just before a turn in the corridor; the guard at Martin's door wouldn't see her.

Gorgoth heard the click of his door opening and was instantly awake. Careful not to move anything, he cast a Detect Life spell, followed by a Night Eye spell. He was lying on his back, so he could see the lone figure moving through his antechamber beneath his closed eyelids. The Orc opened one eye by a minuscule fraction; just enough for him to identify the half-naked, dagger-wielding form of Callia Petit as she entered his bedroom. He cast a Silence spell that meant no sound would travel in or out of his rooms, closed his eye again, cast one other spell and waited.

A cold steel edge was pressed against his throat. "Hello, Callia," greeted Gorgoth without opening his eyes. "Here to claim your revenge?"

She stiffened slightly, but the dagger never wavered. "You do not deserve life, you bastard, let alone the status of a hero," she whispered through clenched teeth.

The warrior-shaman opened his eyes. "You are right to seek vengeance," he told her, his yellow gaze meeting her grey eyes. Her gaze did not falter. She was committed. "It is a worthy cause, to avenge the death of your mother," he continued. "In normal circumstances, I would offer no reason for you not to cut my throat. But these are not normal times."

Callia snarled. "If you think you can wriggle out because you closed a few Gates-" The Orc cut her off.

"_Listen_ to me, Callia," growled Gorgoth. "I raped your mother, yes. I did not mean to kill her, but that does not mean I am not directly responsible for her death. However, you should not kill me, no matter how justified your reason is."

The dagger was pressed more firmly against his throat. If Gorgoth breathed slightly heavier, he would be cut. "Don't feed me more lies," hissed the angered Breton. "You know that Tamriel doesn't _need_ you. There are other heroes."

"Are there?" retorted Gorgoth. "Heroes are plentiful in times of war, but Jauffre has seen what you have not: I am needed. I am the Hero of Kvatch. That is not just a title, it is the needs of many. So many are relying on _me_ to stop Dagon. I am powerful. I have experience. I can close Oblivion Gates alone. I can get what Martin needs. I am _essential_. I am what we need in times like this, Callia: a true Hero, one whose destiny is truly unbound." The warrior-shaman paused, staring stonily up at his fellow Blade. "Kill me if you will, Breton, but if you do, you have lost the war. You will have doomed Tamriel. The onus of that will be on _your_ shoulders. _That_ should hold higher value to you than your revenge." He closed his mouth and stared up at her, unblinking, his expression unchanging.

Callia's lips trembled, her eyes wide with hate. "I won't be around to see that," she muttered after a few seconds. Her grip tightened, and she forced the blade across Gorgoth's throat.

The blade was sharp. It would have easily torn through any normal neck and opened the throat. However, the Orc's powerful resistance spell meant that it merely slid across his green skin, leaving no mark. Callia didn't even have time to gape, let alone turn the weapon on herself, before Gorgoth leapt up, one of his hands grasping both of hers along with the dagger and wrenching them above her head. The other hand forced her onto her back on the bed beside him before clamping down over her mouth. A well-positioned knee immobilised both of her legs.

"You disappoint me, Callia," he growled, ignoring her frantic struggling and groaning. "You would kill me, then yourself, and leave this place, only to inflict death and despair on those whom you love?" The Orc shook his head. Callia grew still, her eyes wide with terror as she realised that Gorgoth was both naked and lying mostly on top of her. "Now, I could punish you by doing what I did to your mother. I do not need magicka to help me dispose of a body effectively." The Breton trapped under him was completely still apart from her heaving chest.

The warrior-shaman shook his head. "But I won't. I won't harm you in any way." Callia's eyes flooded with relief, and the Orc felt her breath tickle his hand from a long, slow sigh. "We need every soldier we have, and you are a Blade. You will uphold your oath to the Emperor," ordered Gorgoth. "As I said, your revenge is justified. And after Dagon is defeated, should you try and hunt me down, that is your right. But do not expect me to be easy prey." The Knight Sister frowned. Gorgoth grunted once and got up, releasing her.

The Breton immediately sprang up off the bed, crouching in a predatory position, glaring at Gorgoth. He'd kept the dagger and was idly spinning it on the palm of his hand. "Go back to your bedroll, Callia," he told her, holding out the dagger hilt-first. "You will need your sleep in the coming days. Keep your revenge in check, but do not let it die."

She snatched her dagger back from him and cautiously backed towards the door. "I _will_ kill you one day, after this is over," she promised, giving him one last glare before turning and fleeing the room. The door banged shut behind her. Gorgoth stared at it for a few moments before returning to bed. He needed the rest; he was planning to rise early in the morning to head down to Bravil in pursuit of the fugitives that Burz had ordered him to deal with. By the time Callia had slipped back into her bedroll, shaking uncontrollably, he had gone back to a sound, deep sleep.

* * *

**A/N: And so ends my first real character development chapter. Feedback is always valued, but even more valued now given that this was a VERY important chapter, to me at least. So tell me what you think. Review. If you don't, you can't complain later about how you wanted me to do something else... I always listen to reviews, but I can't if you don't leave one, can I?**


	33. Malevolence

**A/N: Almost four weeks since my last update, though I do have a bit of an excuse; I went on holiday for a week and a half. Still, it's been a long time in coming. Thanks to all who reviewed:**

**D: Good to hear. And ever since learning about the existence of Vonnegut's rules I've done my best to follow most of them; hopefully, that shows.**

**Underpaid Critic: Big head? Narp, not me. I haven't had much of an ego since I was about twelve. I would NEVER even contemplate thinking about using lines already attempted by other authors. Before you mentioned them, I'd never even heard of Fitzgerald or the Great Gatsby, so clearly I'd had no idea I was using his words. Those two lines have since been changed.**

**Hmm... well, there's not much I can do about my good writing putting my more average writing in the shadow. I do try to make it all good, but there are always going to be some parts better than others.**

**Random Reader: Very true, though I doubt a Blade would sleep with such a weapon under her pillow. Well, she might; who knows? Either way, I never thought about those being examples of their races before... though when I look at them like that, it does seem that way sometimes. One thing: Not all Bosmer follow the Green Pact. Aerin doesn't, as mentioned in Chapter 13. Most Valenwood Bosmer do, but certainly not all Bosmer in every part of Tamriel. And rest assured, there are several out there who can challenge/defeat Gorgoth. You'll be seeing them.**

**One last thing: Should any of you readers of mine wish to read a good fic with a lot of originality, try Enakaz's 'Knights'. You won't regret it. Anyhow, that's enough from me, here's your long-awaited chapter:**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-three: Malevolence**

Gorgoth rose with the sun. The dawn itself was not visible from his room, which had no east-facing windows, but the warrior-shaman woke promptly nonetheless. As always, he was instantly alert within seconds of waking; long years of training had ingrained that into him. He swung his legs onto the floor and pushed himself out of bed, padding over to the window and leaning on the sill for a few seconds, looking out at the shadow of the night retreating down the mountainsides as the sun lit up the Jeralls. Snow had fallen last night and was thick on the ground, save for patches of wet stone surrounding the braziers; footprints were already pockmarking the fine white blanket on the fort's battlements.

The Orc turned from the window and started donning clothes and armour. By the time he had pulled on his gauntlets and fastened his belt, the sun's rays were beating down on the edges of the fortress. There was a knock on the door. He grunted, indicating that they should enter, and stood with his back to the window as Callia entered his room, letting the door swing shut behind her. Unlike last night's escapade, she was dressed in full plate armour, excluding the helmet that was currently tucked under her arm. Gorgoth folded his arms and waited.

Staring at his chest, the Breton appeared to struggle for words before clearing her throat and speaking. "I was thinking about what happened last night," she began, eyes darting momentarily to the Orc's still-unmade bed. Clearly, she had been thinking about it the entire night; there were shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep, but those grey eyes were sharp as they momentarily focused on Gorgoth's face before dropping once more to his chest. "It was a mistake. A mistake to try to kill you, that is. My reasoning behind it was fully justified." Anger flashed across her face and it was clear that she still hated him. He hadn't expected anything less from her; she would despise him until one of them died.

"You have your right to vengeance," responded her fellow Knight Brother. "However, you clearly let it cloud your judgement. You do not seem the type to willingly doom everyone you have ever known and loved for personal reasons."

Callia shook her head. "You're right, I'm not. I'd never have survived that Oblivion Gate while thinking of you, so I just pushed you to the back of my mind and ignored you. I can manage that normally. But with you waltzing in here like you have a right to be here, and everyone treating you like a hero..." she sighed angrily. "Sometimes it's like I'm the only person in this damned fortress who sees you for what you are!" The Blade gripped a clump of her brown hair in frustration, for lack of a better thing to grab on to. "But you're right," she grated, speaking as though the words were being forcefully torn from her chest. "We _do_ need you. You're the Hero of Kvatch. I can't kill you, not yet."

"That is correct," confirmed Gorgoth, folding his arms as he studied her extensively. She was short – shorter than most Bretons – and young, but she had survived an Oblivion Gate, had taken the fight to the daedra and won. That said something. "It would help if you gave me your word that you would not try to kill me before the war is over," he continued. "That way, I could be sure. That way, I might be able to trust you as a Knight Brother should trust his Knight Sister."

Callia's lip curled. "You do not deserve that rank. But..." Her voice trailed off, and she sighed again. Clearly, she had come to the realisation that trust between comrades in these dark times was more important than feuds, no matter how deep or justified. Resting her hand on the hilt of her katana, she met his stony gaze. "I swear on my life and the lives of all whom I love that I will not attempt to kill you, nor work to allow harm to come to you, until the Emperor is crowned and the Oblivion Crisis is over." The Breton fell silent, glaring at him as though daring him to dismiss her lightly.

"And now the question is of whether I can trust your word or not," observed Gorgoth. Callia bristled with indignation but kept silent as the warrior-shaman considered her, idly tapping his canine. She had attempted to kill him mere hours ago, but she had clearly been blinded by revenge. And he had the advantage of knowing exactly where she stood, not something he could say for many people in Cloud Ruler Temple. The look in her eyes when she had given her oath was one of anger, but also one of complete sincerity. If she was lying, then she was a true master of concealment. "I trust you," he concluded. "Slightly."

She grunted, as though his trust was a viper to be treated with caution and hostility. "I'll see you around, Gorgoth," she told him icily. It was the first time she'd used his name. The Orc saluted her in response, causing her to angrily turn, wrench the door open, and stalk from his chambers. He simply turned and continued donning his equipment, sliding Blood King and his dai-katana through the strap running across his back and chest. His plate armour was getting increasingly battered and vulnerable in a few places, but it would do for now. It would have to; the warrior-shaman had no time to get another suit forged. He checked the row of potions lining his belt one last time before heading for the door.

The courtyard was near-deserted, only those on duty braving the cold dawn. Gorgoth made his way over to the stables, which were similarly empty apart from the horses, most of whom were asleep. He woke Vorguz, ignoring the stallion's irritable snorts, and was in the process of saddling him when the sound of heavy boots crunching across the stable brought his head round. Lurog, fully armed and armoured, was slowly waking Astakh, soothing the sleepy warhorse with muttered words in Orcish. "I never did ask what you were doing in Cyrodiil," observed Gorgoth.

Lurog glanced across at his companion. "No, you never did," he replied. He said no more and continued to get Astakh ready for travel. Gorgoth was content to leave it at that; if his comrade sought privacy, then the warrior-shaman was more than willing to let him. "I'm going to Leyawiin," he offered eventually as he led his Wrothgarian stallion out of his stall. "You are going to Bravil?" Gorgoth nodded; no words were needed to ascertain whether they would now be travelling together.

Leading their horses out of the stables, both were stopped by Jauffre. "The work on translation is proceeding quickly," the Breton briskly informed them. "You might be informed soon to return to Cloud Ruler Temple." The Grandmaster's eyes flickered over to Lurog. "Would you be requiring such a message?" he asked.

"I stand with Gorgoth until this is over," confirmed the warrior. Jauffre nodded and stood aside to let them past. The two Orcs led their horses down the multitude of steps and though the narrow passage through the slightly-opened gates, which soon swung shut behind them. Sunlight had evaporated most of the mist in the valley below them, and the snow-laden walls and towers of Bruma were clearly visible. They mounted and spurred their horses down the path in the direction of the city.

Bruma's North Gate was open to them, the guards looking fresh despite their bleary eyes. Clearly, a new shift had just started. The City Guards and Watches throughout Cyrodiil were getting increasingly watchful in light of the escalation of the Oblivion Crisis. Increased patrols in greater strength had also been ordered by the Legion to try to reassure the people that the roads remained safe. There had been reports of numerous Oblivion Gates in the wilderness, but only a few had been confirmed. Of those, all had been closed by the Legion. But there was no hiding from the fact that the people were still afraid.

Both Orcs dismounted and led their horses through the city, giving them some respite from carrying their heavily-armoured riders. Bruma was largely awake, with the streets bustling with activity. The intimidating air of the two warriors and their black horses, however, was enough to give them a clear space to move through. They didn't have any interactions to deal with until a shriek of joy rent the air behind them. Exchanging glances – Lurog wore a look of pleased exasperation – the Orcs turned as one.

"I _knew_ I'd find you here!" squealed Dralasa Helas as she jumped into Gorgoth's barely-prepared arms. The sheer power of the Dunmer's leap was enough to force the warrior-shaman to take a step back. Typically, the dark blue dress she was wearing was made of thin silk despite the cold, but she always had been good at warming spells. Gorgoth had barely started to return the hug before she wriggled out of his arms and launched herself at Lurog. The Orcish warrior grinned, fully exposing his full set of powerful teeth.

"Yeah, good to see you as well, Dral," replied Lurog, strain absent from his voice despite the pressure being applied to his chest by the Dark Elf. That pressure abruptly ceased as Dralasa hopped back from him and beamed at them alternately, brushing her flame-red hair out of her eyes. The entire scene was drawing a few second glances from passers-by, but nothing more than that; on a cold winter's morning, no-one wanted to start an argument with two heavily-armoured Orcs who were clearly friends of the apparently insane Dunmer.

"Knew you'd get the big bruiser back," giggled Dralasa as she tapped the haft of Blood King. "And from what I heard, you didn't even use Phillida to paint the walls of his own barracks. Nice of you." She changed subjects before Gorgoth could respond. "So what _are_ the pair of you doing in Cyrodiil? You've kept me wondering long enough."

"I'm known as the Hero of Kvatch by many," responded Gorgoth, folding his arms while keeping Vorguz's reins clenched in one fist. The stallion was gazing down at the snow, disinterested, whereas Astakh was eyeing Dralasa keenly, hoping for an apple. "I'm in the Blades, oathsworn to serve the uncrowned heir to Uriel Septim. I'm in the thick of this war, Dralasa."

"As you'd expect," snorted Lurog, noting that Dralasa's eyes were nearly popping out of her head. "Have you ever missed the opportunity to leap in as soon as a war erupts near you?"

"Coincidentally, they've all had causes worth fighting for, these wars," retorted Gorgoth.

"Always knew you'd become famous, Gorgoth," smiled Dralasa, patting his elbow vigourously. "So I take it you two are passing through Bruma on the way to more heroic deeds?" She pouted, folding her arms. "But I haven't seen you for so long... at least you'll be coming back, though." She had perked up again within seconds. Such was her nature.

"I get the sense that you'll see us again soon, Dral," Lurog reassured her. "But for now, I'm off to Leyawiin. I'll come back and fill you in on what you've missed, though. I promise."

A sparkle appeared in the Dark Elf's eye. "I'll hold you to that," she claimed, poking the warrior in the chest. A nuzzling at her elbow caught her attention and she adopted a sad expression as she ruffled Astakh's mane. "Sorry, Assy, but I don't have any apples," she told the massive horse. He snorted but half-closed his eyes, relaxing under the Dunmer's touch.

Gorgoth, however, was not relaxed. He was glancing into the city centre, his brow slightly furrowed. "I sense strong Illusion magic," he muttered. "Very strong." His suspicions were instantly aroused.

"Well, it's not the Mage's Guild," observed Dralasa, falling in beside the warrior-shaman as he turned Vorguz and started walking in the direction of the source of the magic. "Their leader can't cast a candle alight." She sniffed in disgust.

"That's where it's coming from," grunted Gorgoth, tying Vorguz to a nearby post and moving onto the narrow pavement that led to the guildhalls. Lurog and Dralasa followed, the former loosening his mace in his belt. The warrior-shaman stopped in front of the Mage's Guild, looking it up and down. Nothing seemed to be amiss, yet he knew that the two competent mages in the Bruma branch didn't often expend that much magicka on a single spell. He shoved the doors open and walked in.

Flames starting to lick at the walls of the guildhall made their intense heat known the instant the trio walked through the boundary of the illusion. Their eyes were instantly drawn to the mutilated body of one of the mages, recognisable only as a Breton by the head neatly placed on the desk that was splattered with her blood. The fire had only recently been started; evidence of that was made clear by the fact that the perpetrators were still standing in the middle of the hall. Both black-cloaked figures turned to look at the intruders with conflicting expressions; one, an Imperial wore an expression of angry surprise, while her High Elf companion kept his face expressionless.

Gorgoth and his two companions stepped closer to the necromancers – that was clearly what they were, with the red skull on their robes – but something gave Gorgoth pause. He stopped; Lurog wisely emulated him, and so did Dralasa, though she poked her tongue out at him as his raised hand stopped her from unleashing her devastating magic at what she saw as defilers.

"You are not what I expected," intoned Mannimarco smoothly. The lich had kept all emotion from his face in a display that Gorgoth might have been proud of, and the same was true of his voice, which was cultured. He'd retained a hint of an accent despite his long years of undeath. However, the King of Worms could not be said to be any other lich. Even his appearance was unchanged, apart from his black eyes, which had no likeness among the living.

"Mannimarco," acknowledged Gorgoth, inclining his head respectfully. Beside him, Dralasa shot him a sidelong glare, one that told him that she'd be berating him later for not attacking one of the most powerful mages to ever walk Nirn. She always had suffered from a startling lack of self-preservation. Lurog merely folded his arms and waited; he knew that he was essentially useless in this situation. For a few seconds, the only sound in the building was the crackling of flames. Smoke started to fill the air, but it was ignored.

"You are not with the Mages," stated the King of Worms. It had the air of a question about it.

"No, we are not," confirmed Gorgoth. "This is clearly a declaration of war," he continued, sweeping an arm around the Guildhall. "That is, if it has not been declared already. I will stay out of it. I have no interest either way."

Mannimarco considered the warrior-shaman for a moment, then gave a brief nod. "Camilla, you have your orders," he told the Imperial necromancer. She barely had time to nod before the King of Worms raised his right hand. A flash of pink teleportation magic and he was gone, leaving smoke swirling into the space his body had occupied.

The Imperial folded her arms and affixed them all with a piercing brown gaze. "You have no interest here," she told them. "Leave."

An angry retort froze on Dralasa's tongue as Gorgoth turned and motioned them out ahead of him. When she attempted to protest, he shot her an icy glare. He got a fiery gaze in return, but at least she obeyed. She knew exactly how far he could be pushed, and right now that gaze was threatening severe retribution if she made any attempt at fighting, no matter how justified she was. He hustled her out of the door behind Lurog then closed the door behind them.

The illusion was still in place, and the cold of Bruma hit them all after the growing warmth of the burning Guildhall. Ignoring the biting, freezing wind – she'd dropped her heating spell – Dralasa rounded on Gorgoth, fury contorting her normally pretty face. "What in Azura's name are you playing at, Gorgoth?" she snarled, poking his breastplate with a finger. "That was _Mannimarco_ in there! How many do you think he's defiled? Thousands? Come on, you know you can-" The warrior-shaman cut her off with a raised hand.

"Do not overestimate my abilities, Dralasa," he told her, turning and walking back down the pavement to their horses. Fuming, the Dark Elf had little choice but to follow. "I may be powerful, but Mannimarco is more so, and his companion was not inconsiderable. Had we fought, it is likely that we would be dead by now. And then he could have used your body, your spirit. I am not prepared to die in a battle I have no interest in."

Dralasa's mouth opened and closed several times before she finally contented herself with a glare. Realising that she was shivering, she cast her heating spell again as they reached the horses. As the two Orcs untied their mounts, a blue-robed Altmer brushed past them, seeming distracted as she walked briskly over to the Mage's Guild. Gorgoth kept half an eye on her; she was a member of the Guild for sure. "The guards will probably be around here soon, when that illusion fades," he remarked, easing Vorguz away from the post. "A delay we can do without. We're not involved in any of this."

By the time they had reached Bruma's South Gate, the illusion had been shattered and smoke from the Guildhall was staining the skyline. Dralasa had calmed enough to start asking them several different questions at once. "Bravil? You're going to _Bravil_?" The elf instantly wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I haven't been so turned off by a smell since I stumbled into that guar pit when I was fourteen." Gorgoth gave no response as he waited for the guards to open the gate enough for them to leave. "And if I knew you were going to Leyawiin, I'd have stayed there!" she exclaimed, turning to Lurog. "Remind me why you're going back to that forever-wet shithouse?"

Lurog glanced at Gorgoth before lowering his voice and bending over to murmur in Dralasa's ear. The warrior-shaman instantly walked a few more paces away; if his comrade wanted privacy, then he would have privacy. He could not, however, ignore Dralasa's loud gasp. "_Really_? I thought-" Lurog made frantic hushing motions. "All right. But I'm coming with you. Wait while I get my horse." The Dark Elf strode out of the South Gate ahead of the two Orcs. The gates swung shut behind them as they led their horses out.

After a few minutes, Dralasa joined them astride her rather sleepy white horse. Quicksilver was aptly named, for he was far faster than either of his opposite numbers, partly due to the fact that his rider weighed far less. Gorgoth, now astride Vorguz, started to lead off, but the Dunmer was beside him in a flash. "It's a long way until we part," she told the Orc, smirking up at him. "Why don't you start from the beginning? I'm sure you've got so much to tell me..." Gorgoth kicked Vorguz into a trot and began to speak.

* * *

As would be expected for a military fortress, the training areas in Cloud Ruler Temple were well-equipped. In this particular room, the edges were lined with practise dummies of varying shapes and sizes as well as boards and punchbags. One such punchbag was being ferociously pummelled by one of the few inhabitants of the room. Another inhabitant was watching her closely. "You seem to be coming down here a lot recently," observed Lathar, scratching his chin.

"I like keeping in shape. So what?" Callia asked the Redguard drillmaster in a somewhat defensive manner, pausing for a break. Her bare torso glistened with sweat.

"You're on watch in twenty minutes," pointed out Lather, rasing a curious eyebrow.

"I asked Grandfather to commute it. He agreed," replied Callia simply, sweeping her somewhat bedraggled hair out of her face and resuming her exertions.

The older Blade chuckled. "You know the Grandmaster hates that nickname," he reminded her. After a few minutes, having received no response, the drillmaster turned and left. The Breton was left alone for a while until footsteps -different from the normal footsteps of steel boots – resounded over the stone floor. She ignored them until their source spoke.

"You're not training," grunted Saliith, folding his arms and fixing the young Blade with a curious stare. She slowly turned to face him, cocking an eyebrow. The Grand Champion appeared to be gearing up for some training of his own – he was wearing nothing but a pair of dirtied cloth trousers and a sword belt – but for now he appeared to have diverted his attentions. "You're not moving enough, and I can't see how that's improving your technique," elaborated the Argonian. "You're putting effort into intensity to take your mind off something. I've seen it before. I've done it before."

"Even if that was true, it's none of your business," growled Callia, turning and launching another attack on the battered punchbag.

"Of course," agreed Saliith, walking over and leaning against the wall just beyond the punchbag. "But I find that it's often best to work out a problem rather than just attempting to bury it. No matter what, it'll worm it's way up again."

The Knight Sister shot him a glance without stopping her exertions. "You don't know the nature of this problem."

"Then maybe you should enlighten me." Callia stopped moving and raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Hey, we're all in this together. We've got to help each other, right?" Saliith spread his arms wide.

"Do you have the first clue about soldiering, gladiator?" sneered Callia.

The Argonian leaned his head back against the wall and said nothing for a moment. "If you want to have any chance at killing Gorgoth, you'll want to be training properly, not just burying your thoughts about him under sweat," he told the Breton.

Callia was speechless for a few seconds. Her arms dropped to her sides. "How do _you_ know about that?" she asked angrily.

The Green Tornado smirked, clearly amused by her. "People often don't credit gladiators with a lot of intelligence, but I am _very_ observant when I have to be," he recounted. "How do you think I survived all those fights in the Arena? I had to be observant." He eased himself away from the wall and started pacing around the Knight Sister. "Do you really think you'll have any hope against Gorgoth?" he asked. "The odds are stacked in his favour, you've got to admit. Taking him on alone is suicide."

"I know the risks," snapped Callia. "This business is between me and him. Stay out of this."

"At least do something more constructive with your free time than pummelling away at that. It's not like you're improving at anything." Saliith beckoned to her. "Come on, let's spar. At least then you might offer more in battle against the real enemy here."

Callia grunted. The Argonian had a point. She had less natural ability than some Blades in the Temple, but Lathar had always told her that vigorous training could always improve anything. "Fine," she growled, picking up her sword belt and unsheathing her katana before moving into the centre of the room. Saliith took one of his shortswords and idly tossed it from hand to hand, his tail twitching. "How many potions do you have?" asked Callia.

Saliith shrugged. "A few in my bag back in the barracks. Don't worry, we'll be fine. I won't be going for killing blows."

The Knight Sister narrowed her eyes before giving a short nod and advancing. She darted forward, swinging low towards the Argonian's legs, but he jumped over her blade and kicked her in the shoulder, throwing her off-balance. He landed and spun, only for his blade to meet the edge of her katana as she recovered. "So, how did you get caught up in all this?" inquired Callia as she took a step back to prevent Saliith using his superior strength to brush her defence aside.

"Mainly because my friend Aerin was caught up in it," confessed Saliith, sidestepping around her, trying to find an opening. "Then I met Gorgoth and... well, I know you hate him, but when I fought alongside him I got the idea that what I was doing was actually making a difference. That's something I rarely feel at the Arena." He dashed in and attempted to get under her guard, but Callia's swing forced him back. She followed, forcing him to dodge two slashes before forcing her arm to the side and slashing at her ribcage. The Breton pirouetted away, tearing her arm from his grasp.

"A gladiator wanting to do some good? That's pretty rare," she remarked. Parrying a limited attack, she suddenly found Saliith's webbed foot in her stomach and she was forced back, barely managing to block a flurry of strikes before straightening again. "Normally all you care about is money and fame."

"Yeah, well, I learnt that it's not all that matters," grated Saliith, swapping sword hands. "I've done all there is to do there. What now? More fights? See out my career? I'll get fame – I've got it already – but what does that get me? I'll get gratitude from the masses who've made big money on me, but that's not real gratitude. I'm not a money pot. I'm a warrior and I can make a difference."

"Well, we can make use of anyone who can chuck a sword around," grunted Callia, attacking her opponent's sword and forcing it out wide as her fist sought his throat. Saliith backpedalled then moved forwards, his own fist finding her lower ribcage. He struck again then knocked her weakened defence aside before placing his blade against her throat. The Grand Champion flashed her a quick toothy grin before drawing back.

"Let me be honest with you," sighed Saliith, sheathing his sword. He wasn't even breathing heavily. "You don't stand a chance against Gorgoth. If you fight him, you will die. Going after him is committing suicide."

"And what would you do in my place?" snarled Callia, roughly grabbing his shoulder and forcing her face to within inches of his. "Forget about it? Walk away from that bastard has done? Let him get away with it?"

"Yes," responded Saliith simply. "What's your death going to solve? Nothing. You won't avenge anyone, you'll just end up as another corpse. That won't help anyone. Think of what you could do if you were still alive."

Callia glared at for a few seconds. "Don't be so sure of my failure," she whispered, before backing away and snatching up her sword belt. Ramming her katana back into its sheath, she turned and left the training room. Saliith remained where he was, with his arms folded. He hadn't told anyone about his now-confirmed suspicions, but he was pretty sure others in the Blades knew. And it was definite that Gorgoth knew, so he wouldn't be trusting her an inch. She wouldn't be much of a danger to that warrior-shaman. He shrugged and turned towards a training dummy.

"Hey, Twitch-tail, you wanna go ransack some Ayleid ruin?" asked Aerin as she strolled in, fully armoured with Trueshot on her back.

"Maybe, if you start using my name," snorted Saliith, sheathing his shortsword.

The archer smirked and folded her arms. "Come on, Saliith. Ya know training is boring. And we're gonna be here for a while, that's for sure. Might as well get some action in. Ilend's hanging out with his new drinking buddies but I know he's game."

The Grand Champion was tempted. Very tempted. But he shook his head. "One of Ysabel's conditions for allowing my absence was that I kept up my training regime," he told her. "You know that woman. She'll be able to tell I haven't trained. Besides..." He leaned in closer, a smirk plucking at his mouth. "I'm pretty sure you an Ilend would appreciate it if it was just you two and the ruin." He winked.

Aerin blushed. "All right, Saliith," she grunted, taking a few steps backward and trying to hide her own smirk. "I'll bring back a few knives for ya." She turned and left the training room.

Saliith snorted and turned to regard the practise dummy in front of him, collecting his thoughts. He put Callia out of his mind; Gorgoth could deal with whatever she could throw at him, and he trusted her to wait until the Crisis was over. Drawing his twin shortswords, the Argonian focused solely on the dummy in front of him and got to work.

* * *

Lurog and Dralasa had taken their leave from Gorgoth just outside the gates of Bravil. Burz hadn't known where the fugitives were hiding, so it was down to the warrior-shaman to find out. The Bay Roan Stables were still nothing but a pile of charred timbers, so Gorgoth brought Vorguz across the bridge into the city before tying him to a nearby post just inside the walls. Ignoring the suspicious glances of the gate guards – clearly, they still remembered the incident with the Blackwood Company – Gorgoth headed deeper into the city. It didn't take him long to find who he was looking for.

As soon as the Orc entered her field of vision, Viera Lerus started watching him suspiciously. She drew herself up to stand straight as he walked up to her. "Do you know anything about the fugitives I've been hired to deal with?" asked Gorgoth, noting her stiff posture and weather-beaten face. Mid-thirties, tied-back brown hair that showed signs of constant helmet use, and experienced grey eyes all spoke of a devoted Guard Captain. Most of her suspicion melted away as she heard his question.

"Apart from the fact that they killed three of my men getting out of prison?" She sighed wearily. "If we knew their location, you wouldn't be here right now. Some of the citizens know, but naturally they're scared. They won't say a thing."

"Why have you not tortured them?"

Viera's eyes narrowed. "I guard and protect these people, Guildsman," she told him, an angry edge to her voice. "I do not hold inquisitions over the matter of a few escaped prisoners. I could ask probing questions, but that would take time; time I do not have if I want to shake up this Guard and actually make some progress in turning it into a competent fighting force." The Imperial muttered something unintelligible and put a hand to her forehead. "Was there anything else you needed, Guildsman?" she asked. Gorgoth shook his head. "Good. I have a City Guard to run." She fixed him with one last stare. "Let me know when the problem has been dealt with."

"Naturally," replied Gorgoth, nodding and walking away. It was only natural that the Captain of the Guard was not wiling to use extreme techniques, but he had no such reservations.

He found his mark a few minutes later. A tall Imperial, wearing nondescript clothing with a shortsword through his belt, found himself grabbed by the neck and thrown into an alley. Coughing, he rose to his knees and grabbed for his weapon, found found himself grabbed from behind, an armour-plated thick arm closing around his neck. "What do you want?" he managed to gasp, clearly thinking he was being mugged, or attacked by a junkie suffering from withdrawal symptoms.

"Do you know where the escaped prisoners are?" asked Gorgoth, his tone cold.

"What?" panted the Imperial. In response, Gorgoth released him then kicked him onto his face, pinning his lower back with a boot on his spine while forcing the man's head up, eliciting a cry of pain. "They'll kill me if I say anything," he managed to grunt, voice strained by his unenviable position.

"I'll kill you if you don't say anything," replied Gorgoth. "And I will make it a lot more painful than they ever could." His spare foot slammed into the Imperial's ribcage. "Where are they?"

"I'll... tell you..." groaned the hapless victim, coughing violently, his entire body shuddering. "Just... get off me."

Gorgoth relented and stepped back as the Imperial slowly dragged himself to his feet. By the time he had steadied himself with his hand against the wall, Gorgoth had taken out his map and was waiting expectantly.

The Imperial's quivering hand pointed to a spot to the north-west of Bravil. "Bloodmayne Cave," he stammered. "The rock is the tallest for miles. You can't miss it." Gorgoth marked the position and returned his map to his belt bag, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. His victim hesitated before breaking into a run, stumbling and almost falling twice before reaching the end of the alley and dashing out of sight. The warrior-shaman was already walking briskly towards the other end, his boots beating a swift rhythm on the stone.

After untying Vorguz, he mounted as soon as he was across the bridge and set out for Bloodmayne Cave. It was some way off the beaten path, but the Imperial's directions were accurate, and before the sun had descended far from its zenith Vorguz was once again being tied, this time to a tree. Gorgoth checked over his weapons and potions then entered the cave.

Gorgoth's summoned light banished the darkness. The sound of water dripping came from several directions. Moss crept up the high walls of the cavern, and stalactites reached down to head height in some places. The stones beneath Gorgoth's boots were damp, and the air was moist and humid. As the Orc moved forward, his armour was occasionally soiled by a drop of water from above. The cavern was a sprawling mass, with holes and passageways of various sizes leading everywhere; the perfect place for those who did not want to be found. Gorgoth regarded his options coldly before choosing one passage and squeezing his way down it. He had to duck for most sections, and his armour sometimes scraped off the walls. The harsh grinding sound reverberated throughout the otherwise near-silent cave.

That amount of noise could not fail to attract attention, and as he emerged from a passage into a larger cavern, Gorgoth felt steel at his throat. Acting on instinct, he smashed his head backwards, getting a pained grunt as payment. He rammed his elbow into his assailant's ribs and tore the sword from their grasp. Turning, the Orc rapidly backed away from a Redguard, dressed in ragged leather armour, who was squeezing her bloodied, broken nose and glaring at him. "What is your name?" asked Gorgoth.

The fugitive spat at him and fumbled for her dagger. Gorgoth moved forward and took both her hands in one of his, ramming them up above her head against the cavern wall and digging her own sword into her lower ribs, just short of drawing blood. "What is your name?" he repeated, in exactly the same tone.

"Ashanta," snarled the Redguard. Her brown eyes spoke volumes about both her hatred and her desperation; she wouldn't want to be going back to prison any time soon. Gorgoth backed away, releasing her, before spinning the longsword and holding it out to her, hilt first. She looked at him incredulously before snatching it back.

"You will go and you will inform your three comrades that I wish to speak to all four of you at once," he instructed. "I will be advancing through the caverns a few minutes behind you. Go." The last word was delivered with so much malevolence that Ashanta forgot all about her desired vengeance and slowly walked backwards towards a different passage, keeping her eyes on him until she was out of sight. Gorgoth stayed where he was until her running footsteps had stopped echoing. He loosened his dai-katana in its scabbard and followed.

Once again, the silence of the cavern returned, apart from the ringing of his boots on the stone. Occasionally he would accidentally kick one of the stalagmites that dotted the cave, but he never heard any response to the noise. Maybe there was an alternative exit that the prisoners had escaped from. But from the look in Ashanta's eyes, she wasn't about to pass up an opportunity for revenge that easily.

A flicker of motion in the shadows caught Gorgoth's eye as a passage widened. He ducked as a throwing axe swished through the air where his head had been. A Nordic warrior roared in anger and charged at him, a battleaxe raised high above his head. Gorgoth grabbed one of his elbows and span round, pushing the Nord away from him. His opponent staggered forward and turned to glare back at Gorgoth. Three other figures appeared from the shadows around him. Ashanta's face was still a bloodied mask of hate, and the faces of the other two were no less hostile: an Argonian was displaying his rows of razor-sharp teeth in a snarl and had an arrow nocked to his bow, while a High Elf had the dull red of Destruction magicka pulsing at his fingertips, ready to be released.

Gorgoth held up his empty hands. "I did not come here wishing to kill you," he claimed. Their hostile looks now included some incredulity and suspicion. "I want to talk."

"Explain," growled the Nord, who still had his battleaxe in both hands. "Why aren't you here if not to kill us? There are prices on our heads."

"Because you are gutless worms who do not deserve an honourable death in battle," grunted Gorgoth in response. "I will haul your worthless carcasses back to prison alive so you can rot there until your days are spent rather than giving you all warrior's deaths."

"Kill him," instructed the Nord.

The Altmer unleashed two fireballs, and the Argonian loosed his arrow, but all three impacted uselessly on Gorgoth's magical shield. The Altmer barely had time to shout a warning before Gorgoth sent a green ball of magicka at him; Silenced, the mage fell back, drawing a dagger and growling in frustration. The Nord roared and charged at Gorgoth, swinging from the hip, but the Orc was ready. He caught the haft of the battleaxe in one hand and slammed his fist up into the Nord's chin. His assailant staggered back, stunned, and Gorgoth spun to plant his boot into his stomach with devastating force. The warrior was hurled back into Ashanta with enough force to take her to the ground, pinning her under him.

Having seen another arrow glance off Gorgoth's thick plate armour, the Argonian decided to make an attempt with a shortsword, springing over his grounded comrades and delivering a mid-air stab. The warrior-shaman evaded the inaccurate attack and swept the Argonian's feet away, ensuring a hard landing. He pounced on the lizard before he could recover and gave him a stunning blow on the temple, tearing some of his scales off and knocking him unconscious. The Altmer tried his luck, but in typical mage fashion he had never trained with weapons. Gorgoth found it easy to grasp his wrist and use his momentum to throw him into the wall behind the Orc with such force that the crack of the fragile elf's ribs breaking were audible.

Ashanta had since wriggled out from under her disabled comrade and stood facing Gorgoth, a snarl on her lips and death in her eyes. "I am _not_ going back to that cesspit," she told him emphatically. The Orc merely beckoned to her. Snarling, she feinted left then struck for the weak point in his armour at the armpit. Her rapid movements meant Gorgoth barely dodged, and the blade, instead of glancing off his armour, made a considerable dent, adding to the many that already perforated the left pauldron and most of the breastplate. Stepping back to absorb the force, he chopped at her sword arm, forcing it forward, then grabbed her back and forced her down while wrenching her arm back up. She howled in pain as her shoulder popped from its socket, a howl that was cut short when Gorgoth's boot drove the breath out of her lungs.

Kicking her sword away, Gorgoth looked over the rest of her companions. The Argonian was out cold, the Altmer was struggling to pull himself to his feet, and the Nord was on his knees, blood and vomit staining his beard. There was no further resistance to be offered. Satisfied that the fugitives had taken their chance to fight back, he laid Illusion magic on all four of them before slapping the Argonian to wake him up. Slowly, ignoring the protests of their bodies, they all involuntarily rose to their feet and started following Gorgoth out of the cavern, with only their eyes free of his spell.

Some time later, the Orc and his reluctant party arrived back in Bravil. Recognising the escaped prisoners, the gate guards were quick to go for their weapons, but Gorgoth merely ordered them to send for Guard Captain Lerus. After a few minutes, she appeared, ignoring Gorgoth and looking into the desperate eyes of every individual. "A command spell?" she asked.

"Yes," confirmed Gorgoth. "I suggest you bind them quickly; my magicka reserves are large, but these are four separate, complex spells. They have been draining my magicka for some time."

Viera motioned to a complement of guards, and they quickly moved in to take the prisoners into custody, leaving the two of them alone just outside the gates. Vorguz had been left tied to one of the posts of the bridge. "I hadn't expected you to take them alive," observed the Imperial, crossing her arms.

"Those wretched scum did not deserve the honour of a warrior's death," explained Gorgoth.

She nodded, pursing her lips in succinct approval. "You didn't tell me you were the Hero of Kvatch," she pointed out.

"Was it relevant?" questioned the warrior-shaman, looking out over the Niben Bay. The dying sun was reflected In the sparkling waters. In the distance, a lonely island was just visible.

"Not to the task in hand, but it would have been good to know," replied Viera. "At the very least, it'd be good to have you in the barracks, giving advice on how to survive in Oblivion. And you could fill me in on the finer details, as well. This is my first war." She glanced at the sun's position. "At least stay here overnight," she pressured. "And I know for a fact you haven't eaten for a while."

Gorgoth nodded. Returning to Cheydinhal to report could wait until the morning. And his rumbling stomach reinforced Viera's point. If he was reading the look in her eyes correctly, she would be interrogating him for everything he knew over dinner. That was fine by him; it was good to meet another enterprising tactician. "Lead on," he invited, falling in beside her as she led him into her city.

* * *

In similar fashion to his comrade, Lurog had set a fast pace since leaving Bravil, and they arrived at Leyawiin just as the sun was setting. Swinging himself out of the saddle, he quickly tossed the reins to one of the ostlers at the Five Riders Stables and started off towards the city gate. Dralasa hurried out of her own saddle and ran to catch up with him. "What's the hurry, Lurog?" she asked him as they slipped in through the city gates.

"You know me. I don't like wasting time." The Orc grunted and looked around. His first impressions of Leyawiin were not impressive; dark clouds broiled overhead, threatening more rain in addition to the damp that already stained the cobbles and seemed to be ingrained in every house. The stench of the nearby swamps drifted over the walls with ease, and stench of a different kind came from several of the townspeople. Shaking his head, Lurog moved on. "I'll have to make inquiries. It might take time," he said.

"Try the castle," Dralasa told him. "The Count might know something. I'm going to check up on an old friend. He was out of town last time I was here."

Lurog smirked. "Have a good time," he chuckled, grinning at her snort and noting that she was blushing slightly. She always had blushed easily. He waved goodbye and set off towards the castle, his heavy chainmail clinking with every step. Beggars and other delinquents steered clear of the Orc; he didn't look particularly charitable, nor was he an easy mark. Lurog, however, was in the mood for breaking a few bones and his foot lashed out at a Khajiit beggar whose legs protruded slightly into Lurog's path. The cat whimpered and withdrew into himself, looking up at the passing warrior with fearful eyes.

As he was approaching the castle, intent on his destination, Lurog barely saw the fuming Argonian in time and they almost walked into each other. The lizard leapt backwards, cursing. "A pox on you and your kind!" he spat, glaring at the larger Orc without fear in his eyes. "First that other one treated me like a slave, and now you come blundering-" he cut off as Lurog grabbed his shoulder, his yellow eyes growing intense.

"What other one?" he growled, shaking the Argonian slightly. The lizard was well-built and had a composite bow slung over his back, but he also seemed intelligent; he knew when he'd met his match.

"That Orc that kept plaguing the castle, never told me her name," he muttered. "Came up to me and virtually forced me to take her up to Fisherman's Rock. Don't know why, and she told me to piss off when we were half a mile away. Didn't even pay me, that lice-ridden whore." The Argonian spat, his glob of saliva making no difference to the damp, trampled grass beneath their feet.

"Take me there," demanded Lurog.

"Who the fuck do you think I am?" snarled the hunter. "One Orc per day is more than enough for any sane man. I'm-" Lurog's fist in his stomach doubled him over, coughing.

"Take me to Fisherman's Rock, and I'll forget about those comments you made about my friend," he threatened, forcing the Argonian's head up.

"Fine. Fine. But I expect payment," grunted the lizard as he stepped back from Lurog. The warrior merely motioned for him to lead on. Muttering under his breath, the Argonian acquiesced, leading him out of the city, heading east.

Darkness had long since claimed the sky by the time Weebam-Na indicated that they were close to Fisherman's Rock. "It's just over there, between those two rock formations," he rasped, pointing. Dimly visible through the trees was the glow of a dying fire.

"Good. Get out of here," ordered Lurog, shoving a small bag of gold in the Argonian's direction. Weebam-Na took it and slunk off, grumbling to himself over the perfidy of Orcs. Lurog ignored him and moved closer to Fisherman's Rock, making as little noise as possible. The sound of snapping twigs under his feet and the rustle of the grass were the only things breaking the silence of the night, apart from the near-constant bird call and the occasional crack from the fire up ahead. It was unnatural. Lurog broke from his cover and walked into the camp with mace in hand.

Five figures were lying slumped on the ground. Blood from a mangled Khajiit splashed as Lurog stepped through the puddle, looking around. Two of the bodies were Khajiit, one was a Nord, one – with her body gone from the waist down – was a Dunmer, and the last body still showed some signs of life.

The warrior grunted and he knelt beside a wounded old friend. "What in Oblivion happened here, Mazoga?" he asked, rapping his knuckles on her bare head to force her out of her stupor. Sanguine liquid was pooling around her, leaking from her fine ebony armour from several deep wounds. The Orc coughed and blinked several times before her amber eyes focused on him.

"Finally got revenge... that's what," she rasped, her breath rattling in her throat. Lurog was already wrenching a cork out of one of his strongest healing potions. One hand was clenched around the hilt of her bloodied sword, but the other grasped the potion and brought it to her mouth, where she polished it off in one gulp. Her comrade was already twisting out the cork of another.

"Revenge? What for?" he asked, thrusting it into her hand. "Until Shagar told me different a few weeks ago, I thought you were in Skyrim."

"I was," grunted Mazoga, attempting to haul herself to her feet. Lurog put an arm around her shoulders and heaved her upwards; no mean feat, as she was just as big as him, wearing heavier armour. "Then Ra'vindra got killed. Killed by these bastards." The Orc spat at the Nordic corpse, who was sprawled on his back, his bright blue eyes wide with shock, clearly having not expected the delivery of the gaping wound in his stomach.

"Damn." Lurog had only met the Khajiit once or twice, but she had seemed like a good warrior. Honourable, unlike so many of her kind. "So you came all the way to Cyrodiil to hunt her killers down?"

"I swore an oath," she told him, wiping her sword clean on a fragment of cloth ripped from one of the Khajiits before sheathing it. "Now that I've fulfilled it, I can get back on with my life."

Lurog nodded in response, looking her over. Her ebony plate armour was battered and had a few holes in it, not to mention the blood splattered over it, but that could be fixed. The potions had done an admirable job of closing the wounds. Her face was just the same as ever, though her black hair was now longer, with the multitude of braids now reaching her shoulder-blades. She took a last look around the camp then kicked dirt over the fire. "So, what were _you_ doing here?" she asked, as they started the long walk back to Leyawiin.

"It's a long story," he sighed, unable to stop a small smile spreading over his face. It was good to see Mazoga again.

"We've got time. Leyawiin is a few miles away. So tell me."

"Well..." Lurog rubbed his chin, glancing sideways at her. "You haven't had any news of Gorgoth, have you?"

Upon hearing the warrior-shamans name, the warrior stiffened, almost imperceptibly. "No. Why?"

"The King sent him on an assignment. Gorgoth ended up getting captured and sent to rot in the Imperial City jail." Mazoga looked at him, alarmed. "Relax. He's still alive. He got pardoned by the Emperor just before he was assassinated." Mazoga's mouth opened, but Lurog continued over her. "He ended up caught up in the entire Oblivion Crisis. He's the Hero of Kvatch now." Mazoga's jaw dropped open and stayed open, until a fly flew in and she started coughing.

"Where is he now?" she asked cautiously once she'd recovered.

"Bravil, last I heard. But- wait, Mazoga!" The Orc had sped up considerably upon hearing the city name, and Lurog was forced to jog to catch back up with her. "It's not that simple. He's just there on business. He's roaming throughout the province right now."

Mazoga stopped dead and whirled to face him. "Where is he based?" she asked him, her voice so emotionless that Gorgoth himself might have nodded in approval.

"Are you sure you want to know? He did-" Mazoga cut him off.

"Where?" she grated, eyes flashing with anger. Despite her hand resting on her sword hilt, Lurog doubted that she'd actually try to get the information by force, but she always had been... fiery.

"Cloud Ruler Temple," he muttered, turning and continuing down the road. Mazoga joined him after a few seconds. "It's near Bruma, just north of it. It's the stronghold of the Blades. But don't you think-"

"I know exactly what I'm doing, Lurog," she told him brusquely. "I know exactly what he said. But after Ra'vindra died, and now that my driving force – that oath – is gone, I feel too lonely. I need someone."

"There's me," grunted her comrade. "And Dralasa is in Leyawiin, probably setting the town alight."

Mazoga smirked but said nothing. For a while, the only sounds were the irrepressible noise of the Blackwood at night and the crunch of their boots on the road. A highwaymen looked out from behind some trees but thought better of attacking two well-equipped Orcs. The inky blackness of the night sky above was absolute; most of the stars, as well as Masser and Secunda, were blotted out by thick clouds. After some thinking, Mazoga broke the silence.

"How is Gorgoth?" she asked hesitantly.

"He lost his armour," recounted Lurog. "But apart from that, it's the same old Gorgoth, apart from the fact that most of the people in this country treat him like a hero." He snorted. "Of course, most of the people in this country have little idea of who he actually is."

"I guess these weak-minded people with their odious morals would exile him if they knew who he really was and what he'd done," sighed Mazoga. "I miss Orsinium. I never thought I would, but now that I've been away for so long – nearly a year now – I do find that I yearn to be home sometimes."

"Tell that to Gorgoth," responded Lurog, looking at her sympathetically. "He'll understand. I know he will."

"Really?" snorted Mazoga. "You know he cares nothing for anyone except himself and a few select others. I'm not one of them."

"You know that's not true," growled her comrade. "You know he meant well, doing what he did. He was trying to help you."

"Well, his perception was off," responded Mazoga angrily, smashing her fist into her palm. Above, a few birds, disturbed by the warrior's exclamation, roused themselves and fled. Both Orcs ignored them. Silence fell again, and slowly they drew closer to Leyawiin.

"Maybe Dralasa really is setting the city on fire," observed Lurog dryly, noting a red glow visible through the leafy canopy.

"Maybe. I'll never put anything past that elf," replied his companion, smirking. "What did she say she was doing?"

Lurog chuckled. "Going to check up on an old friend. Her words." He sighed. "So what happens next morning? We all go up to-" his words were cut off as a gap appeared in the canopy; the trees were thinning out as they approached Leyawiin. The sky was no longer the cold, silent blankness of a cloudy midnight; it was an angry, ravaged black, split by red and orange. Lowering his gaze, the Orc could see the flickering of fire from the Oblivion Gate. He drew his mace, taking comfort in the weight. Beside him, Mazoga's sword rattled from her scabbard. "Up for another fight?" asked Lurog.

"Need you ask?" snorted the other Orc, already striding towards the Gate with determination. Lurog joined her in pushing through the undergrowth, emerging on what could be called the edge of the Blackwood. The Gate was right in front of them. Daedra were pouring forth in a horde, charging towards the gates of Leyawiin. Already bells tolling in the city were raising the alarm.

"I'd say the odds are stacked in Dagon's favour," observed Lurog, hefting his shield as they walked towards the Gate. "We could go into Leyawiin and try to get some help from the Watch."

Mazoga snorted. "They've got their hands full," she pointed out. "Come on, we've faced down the odds before and won."

"Fair enough," grunted her companion. The streams of daedra pouring from the Gate were facing directly away from them, and were making so much noise that they would be unlikely to hear an entire company of Orcs approaching. They couldn't enter the Gate from the rear – Gorgoth had told Lurog that the only result was a painful burn – so they'd have to quickly curl around it when there was a gap in the outgoing assault. Moving up to just behind the portal – already beginning to sweat under their heavy armour – the two warriors settled down to wait.

Eventually, the activity died down, and sparing a glance for the Daedra now pounding on the gate and walls, the two Orcs walked swiftly into the Gate, preparing themselves for the unenviable transition from Nirn to Oblivion. Staggering out the other end, they quickly straightened and looked around them. Of immediate note was the squad of twenty Dremora a few hundred paces from them and approaching fast. Both Orcs adopted a look of grim determination and accepted that they were about to die. A few of the Kyn shouted insults as the squad split up to come at them from several different angles. Lurog and Mazoga moved apart slightly, each giving the other room to manoeuvre while still protecting the other's backs.

"Any last words?" enquired Lurog.

Mazoga shook her head. "I'll save all the breath I can for fighting," she responded, her left hand clenching, clearly wishing she had a shield. Her comrade nodded and turned back to the advancing Dremora. Neither of them needed any words.

The first Kynaz roared a challenge and advanced ahead of the others, his spear searching for a way past Lurog's shield. The Orc advanced, forcing it to the side, and knocked the Dremora's legs from under him with his mace. Swinging down, there was a crunch as the Kynaz's skull shattered. Withdrawing his weapon, the warrior barely blocked a powerful swing from a sword-wielding Dremora, and was forced back to recover. At his back, Mazoga had slashed one throat open, but found herself accosted by three Dremora at once, and even her fast swordwork was failing to keep her armour untouched. Lurog's mace lifted one of his assailants into the air with a compacted spine, but a mighty blow from a warhammer put a massive dent into his shield, sending him staggering back into Mazoga, putting both of them off-balance. Lurog drew air into his lungs for a final defiant battle cry.

There was a resounding, violent squelch as every remaining living Dremora exploded, armoured body parts bombarding the pair of Orcs. Lurog was cut over the eye by a flying hand but he ignored it, looking incredulously at the architect of such a devastating spell. "Come on, do you really think you two would be able to have an Oblivion Gate all to yourselves?" asked Dralasa, laughing delightedly and completely ignoring the blood staining her expensive dress, not to mention her bare skin and hair.

"Should've known you wouldn't stay placidly behind those walls," rasped Mazoga, casting an eye over her armour. It was dented in several places but still offered more than adequate protection.

"Damn right," chirped the cheerful Dunmer, walking past them and delicately stepping around the littered body parts to take a look around. "So these are the Deadlands..." She snorted. "Bit inhospitable. Shall we show Dagon what he gets in return if he treats his guests as shabbily as this?"

Lurog resisted the inclination to roll his eyes as he wiped the blood out of his eye. "Whatever you want, Dral," he muttered, hefting his weapon and striding out across the dead earth towards the Sigil Keep.

* * *

**A/N: OK, hopefully, the next chapter won't be as long in coming as this one was. Just remember that reviews almost always motivate me, so if you want to help, click the blue link below and leave one. Just a few minutes of your time...  
**


	34. Hope and Despair

**A/N: Yes, near enough three and a half weeks. Again. I can only apologise. I WILL try harder to write faster in future. Anyhow, my review count for last chapter was below average, but thanks to those who DID review; keep that up. And for those who didn't, try reviewing. It's not hard.**

**Random Reader: You'll find out about Mazoga soon enough... maybe next chapter, or maybe in the next few. Dunno how exactly I'm going to spin it yet, but I DO know their past. And in the BaS universe, steel is far more common than silver; not what you'd expect a Blade to have under her pillow. And not everyone can use magicka... As for Mannimarco, the physical incarnation of him on Nirn with have near-godly powers, so he'll be pretty bloody powerful, yes.**

**Rokibfd: That's good to hear; I never would have rated it that highly myself, but... anyhow, you're right, I've changed that bit. And you know I like changing NPCs into major/minor characters, so, yes, I can tell you that I have plans for Mazoga...**

**Maverick77: Well, a few mistakes always slip through my proofreading. And, arg, that's never good to hear. Hope it gets fixed ASAP.**

**Underpaid Critic: Ah, I see. I get you now. It did sound a lot like a cliches when I first thought it up, but if I could pull it off well... as for cliched lines, I guess I'd better expand my reading library so I can better avoid them.**

**Hmm, odd. I didn't particularly like that section. Much how I don't particularly like the last section of this chapter. Odd how things work out sometimes. Anyhow, yes, Mannimarco would be an immensely powerful opponent, if I ever get the chance to spin him in somehow. Which is unlikely. As for Mazoga... I think she'll be more focused on other things now, rather than becoming a knight. I always did think that was rather unOrsiniumish of her.**

**Anyhow, on with the chapter. Don't forget to leave a review.**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-four: Hope and Despair**

The Oblivion Gate to the east of Leyawiin crumbled into nothingness. Three elves stumbled out of it, the pounding rain relieving their hot flesh and attacking the blood and grime ingrained in their armour and skin. The ground around them was relatively clear of corruption; no daedra had fallen near the portal. "Well, that was fun," observed Dralasa brightly as she stepped away from the closed Gate. The Dunmer was ignoring the numerous bloody rips in her dress and the accumulated filth of battle covering her body; fortunately, Lurog had brought an ample supply of healing potions for all three of them, and even Dralasa's insignificant skill with Restoration was enough to heal shallow wounds.

"Fun?" growled Mazoga, running her gauntleted finger down the edge of her ebony longsword to check for any chips. Her armour was even more dented than it had been before; an armourer's services would be required before she saw any more strenuous action. "Sure, it was good fighting, but fun?" The Orc snorted. "Dral, you are depraved."

"We all knew that," muttered Lurog, wiping brain matter off his mace and striding towards Leyawiin. "Looks like the daedra have made some progress, at least." Bodies of the dead carpeted the ground before the walls, but the gates had been smashed in. Shouts and ringing of steel on steel confirmed that the fighting was still ongoing. The Orc's shield was battered and his chainmail was torn in several places, but Wrothgarian steel was among the strongest in Tamriel. It would suffice. "Take two minutes, then we'll enter the city."

The two Orcs instantly slumped down onto the grass and relaxed, but Dralasa was far less fatigued than either of them; she was unencumbered with heavy armour and had escaped the strain of physical fighting, almost all of which ad been taken care of by her more martial comrades, though it was fair to say that their victory was mainly down to her. She walked off in the direction of a small pool of water and dipped her bare feet in, smiling as the cold water chilled her worn, hot feet. The Dunmer didn't even care when an inquisitive frog started poking at her big toe as she looked around, squinting towards Leyawiin. Satisfied that the city wasn't yet on fire, she sat down at the pond's edge and laid her legs along the bottom of the pond, letting the water come up to her knees. The soothing sensation spread.

Boots thumping on the grass put an end to it. "Come on, Dral," growled Lurog, offering her his hand. "You still have enough magicka left to devastate the daedra if you hit them in the back." The Dark Elf sighed, rolled her eyes, and accepted his hand, flicking water with every step she took.

Mazoga was squinting at Leyawiin's skyline. They had been in Oblivion for hours – the grey of dawn was tinting the sky behind them – but the daedra, from what she could tell from outside, hadn't made much headway yet. Leyawiin's troops were far from the worst in the province – with the history of insurgency in the area, they were among the most experienced – but the daedra would always have physical superiority, as well as strength in numbers. "How long d'you reckon they can hold out?" she asked Lurog as the three of them started marching for the East Gate.

"It depends," responded the other warrior. "I cannot say for sure how long we were in Dagon's realm. Just prepare for the worst." Mazoga nodded and drew her sword once again. They were closer to the gates, and had to keep stepping around arrow-ridden Daedric corpses. Dralasa grimaced; whenever she stepped in one of the many puddles of blood, the sanguine liquid splashed her legs. By the time they reached the gates – which were hanging limply from their mighty hinges – her lower legs and the hem of her knee-length dress were more red than blue.

The sounds of battle reached them from through the gateway, but their path was partially blocked by piles of bodies. This was where the Leyawiin City Watch had mounted their main defence, and both attackers and defenders had fallen in their hundreds. Lurog and Mazoga forced a way through to the street beyond, shoving the corpses out of the way as Dralasa followed in their wake.

Fighting was going on in every direction; the daedra had pushed their way down every side street available to them as the City Watch doggedly attempted to hold their ground. The invaders were paying in blood for every inch of Leyawiin they took, but despite their horrendous casualties, they were pushing onwards with ferocity. The defenders lines were thin on several fronts; in some places, a few more daedra into the breach would shatter them. Lurog's experienced eyes evaluated the situation within seconds. "Mazoga, you and me will charge the Daedric rear down that street," he said, pointing down one of the wider streets; this one led to the nearby castle and thus was under heavy attack. "You know that both of us attacking their rear will be worth ten in the battle line. Dral, do what you do best and sow chaos everywhere you can."

"No encouragement needed," giggled Dralasa as she started walking down the main street. Within seconds, four lightning bolts had rent the Daedric ranks, and ball lightning scythed down scores more. Lurog and Mazoga were already charging in the other direction, silently falling upon the daedra who were on the verge of breaking the Watch's line. By the time their enemies realised the threat, the two Orcs had felled six of them, and their weapons ruthlessly hacked down several more. The mauled City Watch, seeing this unexpected aid, gave a roar and forced themselves forward, laying into the invaders with renewed vigour.

The street leading to the castle was rapidly cleared of the enemy, and the two Orcs, not resting on their laurels, were turning back to find another street to repeat the tactic when two Storm Atronachs unleashed chain lightning at the entire squad. Up on the walls, the Daedric commander - a Markynaz - had been directing his forces and had quickly sent the two Atronachs he had in reserve to the trouble spot. Their attacks blasted the squad apart, but the bolts had landed beyond the Orcs, who were merely slammed into a nearby building with enough force to crack the timbers.

Lurog groaned and forced himself to his feet. Searing pain across his side indicated a broken rib, but for now he concentrated on pushing himself onwards towards the Atronachs. Most of the Watch behind him had been killed, and Mazoga was struggling to rise. Before the daedra could finish the job, however, two large fireballs blew them to pieces. Dralasa stepped into the mouth of the street and somewhat impatiently beckoned her comrades onwards. Beyond her, several squads of guardsmen rushed past, the battle cry of "_Leyawiin!_" tearing from their throats as they threw their weight into several isolated skirmishes.

The warrior grunted and turned back to Mazoga, gripping her elbow and forcing her to her feet. She muttered something unintelligible and grabbed her sword from the ground. Ignoring the pain from his broken rib, Lurog was already running towards the fighting. The Markynaz had descended from the wall and was leading his bodyguard to the stiffest fighting, where the Watch, reinforced by reserves and the local Fighter's Guild, was driving a wedge in the chaotic jumble of the Daedric battle line.

"I'm almost out of magicka. Time for you to do the heavy lifting," remarked Dralasa as Lurog and Mazoga joined her, a few steps back from the melee. The fighting had been pushed back towards the Gate, with dead from both sides littering the battlefield all around them. A summoned shortsword was gripped in Dralasa's right hand, but should the daedra break through, she was barely capable of even defending herself without her magicka.

"Stay safe," grunted Lurog as he hefted his shield and stepped up to where the fighting was heaviest. The Markynaz and his bodyguard of high-ranking Dremora were cutting a swathe through the ranks of the guardsmen. Plunging his scimitar through an Imperial's stomach, the Daedric commander pushed past his victim to find his path blocked by the sturdy Orc. Finding his slash blocked by Lurog's shield, the Kynaz attempted to kick his defence aside, only to be knocked off balance by a glancing mace blow to his shoulder. As more guardsmen rushed to the area, the Markynaz snarled as he was forced onto the defensive.

Mazoga kicked a scamp off her blade and looked up just in time to duck under a wild swipe from a daedroth. The massive reptilian daedra were the prime targets for the Watch's archers; just one could cut a swathe through their ranks while being hard to take down. Already a space was opening up around the warrior and this particular specimen; neither side wanted to get in the way of those powerful claws or that massive, twitching tail. The lizard emitted a powerful roar and leapt forward, but the Orc had already ducked to the side and plunged her sword into its ribs as it blundered past. Its momentum ripped the hilt from her hands, but she didn't waste a second; without hesitation, she plucked a spear from the grasp of a dead guardsman and rammed it up against the base of the daedroth's skull. Recovering her sword, she turned in time to see a guardsman block a Dremora's attempt to stab her in the back.

Dralasa sidestepped warily along the battle line, careful to avoid tripping over bodies. She shot a suspicious glance down at the shortsword, held somewhat delicately in her untrained hand. Knowing how pitiful her chances were against even a mere Churl, the Dunmer had kept some magicka in reserve, but she was still frustratingly impotent. Her normally cheerful face contorted into a sour grimace as a lone scamp shouldered his way between two guardsmen, who were struggling to deal with some marauding clannfear.

Chattering harshly, the lesser daedra ambled forward slowly before throwing a quick fireball at the Dark Elf. Dralasa threw herself to the side, but the range was too short; the fireball caught her arm, spinning her around. She hit the ground on her back, jarring her, with a nasty burn running the entire length of her forearm. She had her Dunmeri blood to thank for the lack of greater damage, but at that moment her mind was focused purely on finding her feet before the scamp reached her. It threw itself at her just as she brought the shortsword up in a clumsy block; the scamp reeled back, yelling in pain at the cut on its arm. Dralasa, recovering from the recoil of the block, moved forward, putting most of her inconsiderable strength into an overhead cleave that the scamp was either too stupid or too slow to dodge. Her sword cut deep into its chest and lodged on a rib, stuck fast. The Dunmer hopefully yanked on the blade before realising it wouldn't come loose, and stepped back, dispelling it before the screeching scamp could gouge her eyes out.

Hastily summoning an identical shortsword, Dralasa gasped in pain as the lesser daedra, mad with pain, took mad swipes at her. One connected, cracking the elf's elbow and spinning her around. A hot poker of agony erupted down her back as the scamp's slash parted her silk dress and the skin underneath with pathetic ease. Gasping with pain, with tears blurring her vision, Dralasa turned and swiped blindly, forcing herself forward. One of the swings connected, and the Dark Elf felt resistance to her blade as sinews, muscle and bone ruptured under the sharp daedric steel of her summoned shortsword. The scamp's head rolled to the ground as Dralasa collapsed onto one knee, her features twisted with pain.

Lurog was locked in battle with the Markynaz, each warrior finding their match in the other. In Lurog's experience, killing the leader of the opposing army was normally catastrophic for morale, but he knew that daedric armies were somewhat different, and in killing the Markynaz he would only remove the threat posed by a skilled warrior. Killing him, however, was no simple matter. Lurog's mace was slower than his opponent's scimitar, and even using his shield in combination he couldn't force the Kynaz onto the defensive for long.

The Dremora spat a few words at him; Lurog knew a few words of the Kyn language, but in the heat of battle his partial knowledge deserted him, and he met the curses with a swing of his mace. The increasing crush of bodies as the battle was forced back into the narrower area near the Gate meant that the enemy commander had less room to manoeuvre, and so was obliged to block the full force of the swing with his blade. Grunting as the shock of the blow shook his entire arm, the Markynaz took a step back right into one of his Dremora, knocking him off balance momentarily. Lurog moved in and punched his shield into his opponent's face, ignoring the crunch of breaking bones to sweep his legs form under him with his mace. An eager guardsman slipped in to stab the dying Kynaz in the throat.

Everywhere the battle had turned in the favour of Leyawiin. The daedra were now compressed into a small area in front of the gate; gradually, they were surrounded, and then it was only a matter of time. They fought to the death, but eventually a ragged cheer started, soon taken up by the remaining survivors of the Watch, along with elements of the Fighters Guild and Blackwood Company that had joined in. Lurog grunted as he watched the last Dremora die, then turned and walked back out of the scrum of guards congratulating each other to find his comrades. Several guardsmen attempted to talk to him, praising him for his actions – they didn't know he'd helped close the Gate, or half of the Watch would be worshipping him – but they still knew how effective he'd been. Shaking them off, he came across Mazoga and Dralasa leaning against the side of a scarred building. The Dunmer's residual cheerfulness was unaffected despite the bloody tear down the back of her dress indicating a recently-healed wound; she was regaling Mazoga with a tale of how she's taken down nearly twenty daedra with a single spell.

The sun rose, peeking over the tops of the battered wall. It illuminated the full scale of the carnage; hundreds of bodies were heaped on the ground in the streets near the East Gate. Watch Captain Caelia Draconis, bloody sword in hand, was shouting orders and directing her men, but it was clear that the Watch had lost over half its strength in the desperate fighting. Corpses belonging to the Fighters Guild and Blackwood Company were also strewn around; they had proved invaluable, but had also paid a price. The furthest daedric corpse from the Gate had been within inches of breaking through to the Castle courtyard. Soon, the normal atmosphere of a battlefield started to thicken; the air grew heavy with the smell of blood and the cries of the wounded. People started coming out of their homes, looking around in horror at the devastation, some doing what little they could.

Lurog, Mazoga and Dralasa had long since retreated to the Five Claws Lodge, where Witseidutsei had overcome her disgust at the bloody footprints they were leaving and gave them her largest room. Lurog and Mazoga started the long process of easing themselves out of their well-used armour; in that time, Dralasa had gone out and returned with her saddlebags, two buckets of water and a sponge. She stripped naked, rolled her torn filthy clothing into a bundle and threw it into a corner, then proceeded to wash herself as thoroughly as possible. Blood and dirt-stained water immediately started pooling on the clean wood floorboards. "Witseidutsei is going to give you hell for that, Dral," remarked Mazoga, removing her breastplate and heaving it onto the double bed.

The Dark Elf shrugged, brushing her sodden red hair out of her eyes. "Meh. I ain't about to walk around Leyawiin caked in blood with my dress half ripped off." She wrinkled her nose. "You two smell like you need some of this as well," she claimed, poking one of the buckets with her foot.

Lurog snorted. "We'll be fine," he grunted. He'd removed all his chainmail and was now working his tired muscles as he lay down on the bed. "I'm going to get some rest. If I'm still sleeping in an hour, wake me up."

"You can be sure of that," murmured Dralasa, giggling slightly as the Orc sighed and relaxed. Mazoga was running a critical eye over her sword; the ebony was pitted in several places, but it was high-quality; it would survive several such engagements. The Dunmer finished washing and cast a more refined version of her well-practised heating spell to quickly dry her body. Running her fingers through her hair in an attempt to emulate a comb, the Dark Elf stepped away from the buckets and started rummaging around in the bundle that had been regurgitated from her saddlebags.

Mazoga sighed and rammed her sword back into its scabbard, easing herself down to lie on the bed beside Lurog before closing her eyes. Not designed to hold two large, wide Orcs, the bed looked decidedly cramped and overloaded. Removing a clean silk dress – this one a dark green – from her saddlebags, Dralasa smirked at the sight before realising that her own eyes were growing heavy with fatigue. Grumbling under her breath about being left without a bed, the Dunmer flopped down into a chair, swinging her legs over the arm and resting her head against the back, deciding to dress later. The combined effects of little rest and an hours-long battle through Oblivion and into Leyawiin hit home, and within minutes she had descended into the dark, warm embrace of deep sleep.

* * *

The watery morning sun failed to have any effect on most of the snow lying thick on Cloud Ruler Temple. A lot of the snow on the courtyard's training ground, however, had long since turned to muddy slush, partly due to the four braziers marking the boundaries, and partly due to the exertions of the few hardy souls sparring and training in the cold of a winter's morning. Some of the Blades on duty sometimes glanced across at them, wondering who in their right mind would practice outside instead of inside at this time of year, but for the most part they themselves concentrated on keeping warm and keeping watch.

Facing a future Emperor on a practice field wasn't something that Ilend was used to, so he had instead ignored his inherent deference to a Septim and treated Martin like any other sparring partner, though he had insisted on using wooden weapons. They bore two bruises each; the heir might have less experience, but the training he'd undergone under Lathar had certainly turned him into an effective warrior, and his natural talent had lain dormant for years. Eyeing each other warily, conscious of the sweat freezing on their bare torsos, the two Imperials slowly sidestepped, neither willing to be the first to strike. Martin's claymore had a longer reach, but counterbalancing that was his opponent's slightly faster longsword.

Ilend, the less cautious, moved forward, feinting left before slashing right. Martin anticipated the move and blocked, darting in with a kick aimed at his midsection. The Guildsman took a step backwards, yanked his opponent's leg forward, and aimed an attack at the heir's head. He ducked and put his back into a powerful cleave that smashed into Ilend's collarbone with enough force to splinter the wood. Ilend was thrown to the ground, but managed to swipe Martin's knees from under him as he fell. The breath was forced from his lungs as the other Imperial fell on top of him, exacerbating the throbbing pain that was coming from his shoulder.

Grunting, the heir pushed himself upwards and offered his sparring partner a hand, smiling. "You're a good fighter, Ilend," he remarked as he helped the swordsman to his feet. "I always like a challenge. I get the sense that a few of the Blades here go easy on me; respectful of them, but also annoying."

"Well, when you fight a man, he's not your friend. Or your Emperor," replied Ilend with a wry smile. The cold wind was hammering at the two Imperials now that they were standing still, numbing the pain from their bruises. Casual applause came from the sidelines; Aerin had joined them, swathed in a heavy cloak and standing close to a brazier. Gnaeus was on the other side of it, arms folded, adopting an air of stubborn indifference. The Bosmer smiled at Ilend and threw him his shirt, which he donned as quickly as he could without seeming unduly hasty.

"I don't see how ya can survive like that in this weather," observed Aerin, pursing her lips as her friend pulled on a heavier, thicker vest. "Not that I'm complaining about the view, though."

Gnaeus barked a laugh. "Maybe you should have paid attention to the admittedly semi-decent swordwork instead of ogling your pet oil painting, girl," he growled. He shot a sideways glance at his fellow Imperial, who was now pulling on his chainmail. "Not that he's much of an oil painting anyway."

"You're in a position to judge?" asked the archer, smirking. "Never thought you swung that way, Gnaeus."

"I've seen enough filthy pretty-boys in my time to get a good judge of their ranking system," was the immediate retort. "Gah, just thinking of those vile days in higher Breton society makes me sick. Pay wasn't worth all that political simpering."

"From what I've read, some Bretons do appear to be over-politicised," chipped in Martin, fastening his belt over his robe. "Some are very good at what they do-" this was accompanied by a significant glance at Captain Renault, who was standing on the battlements looking out over Bruma "- but from what I've heard about High Rock, people live and die by politics."

"Even the bloody servants have spies," snarled Gnaeus. "Useless whelps." He spat. The four of them moved over to the edge of the west wall, leaning on it as they looked out over the Jerall Mountains. "How's the translation going?" the old Imperial asked the heir.

The future Emperor groaned, running a hand over his forehead. "I wish you wouldn't remind me of that," he muttered. "We thought it would get easier over time, but Dagon is completely incomprehensible. I'll put in an hour later."

"Hey, don't overwork yourself, ya hear?" Aerin waggled a finger under Martin's nose. "Not only are you our only hope, but it'd be good ta see a nice bloke on that throne. So don't kill yourself." Her friendly concern brought a slight smile to the Imperial's face. On the other side of the Bosmer, Ilend successfully hid his snigger.

"A nice Emperor won't be an Emperor for very long," claimed the old hermit, harrumphing. "Haven't you been listening, girl? Politics is a cutthroat business; the Elder Council might not be as skilled as the Breton nobles, but they make up for it by wielding actual power."

"Don't remind me," sighed Martin. "I'm preparing for that, but I'd rather deal with it when it comes than be constantly reminded of it."

"I remember when I first started to command my squad in the Watch," added Ilend with a grimace. "If that was daunting, taking command of an entire Empire is... unenviable. Best of luck, though." The glare of the sun reflecting off the snow of the Jeralls was forcing the Imperial to squint as he admired the view.

"I think everyone in the Empire should take a moment to give thanks that you aren't a Septim," grated Gnaeus. The old Imperial irritably rubbed at his beard. "As for Martin, on the other hand..." he shot a sideways glance at the heir. "As for you, we've got a moderately young priest with a questionable past." He snorted. "At least it's a break from some of the boring old farts the Septim line has produced."

Martin turned to regard the older man coldly. "My ancestors had their foibles like all men, but it is not your place to judge them. You did not live in their time."

Gnaeus snorted. "All I'm doing is saying what I think. And history books can give a pretty good representation. Uriel V knew his stuff, one of the few who did. Too bad the Akaviri made a pincushion out of him."

The retort of Uriel V's descendant was cut off by the appearance of Jauffre, whose weathered face bore more lines of worry and concern than normal. "I've just received a report from Bruma," he started, after his customary salute to Martin. "It confirms what our sentries have seen recently: there's an Oblivion Gate outside Bruma."

The heir immediately turned and strode rapidly up the path to the sentry towers at the end of the fortress. He was joined by his companions as he peered grimly down at the distant swirling cauldron of fire and ash and was an Oblivion Gate. Earlier, it could have been dismissed as a normal fire from this distance, but now they knew for sure what it was, it had taken on a malevolent character that made it unmistakeable. "It looks like it's right next to the North Gate," he grated, turning to the Grandmaster. "What's the situation down there?"

"Burd reports that his men have repelled repeated attacks without loss and have contained the threat; he and the Guard were well-prepared for such an invasion." The wizened Grandmaster frowned down at the portal as though it had insulted him personally. "They might not last long, however; another may be opening soon. Burd is eager to close it, but he wants someone with experience to advise him and his men. He wanted Gorgoth, but he is... not available." Jauffre grimaced.

"I'll go," said Ilend, without hesitation. The Breton raised an eyebrow. "I've got experience," continued the Imperial. "I've been through Oblivion twice; I've led men in Oblivion, I know how the daedra operate."

"Good enough," agreed Jauffre, giving a short nod. "Burd will be providing the bulk of our force, but you'll be taking a few Blades with you."

"And me," chipped in Aerin as the leader of the Blades hurried off to muster his men. The Bosmer was already checking the edges of her shortsword and making sure her dagger was tucked firmly in her belt. "You ain't leaving me behind, that's for sure," she told him, looking up, excitement sparkling in her eyes.

Ilend grunted. "You know how dangerous it is, Aerin," he muttered. "There's going to be a lot of us. No need to risk yourself."

Aerin arched both eyebrows, her expression one of shock. "What, you're trying ta keep _me_ out of danger?" she asked him incredulously. Martin and Gnaeus started to edge away. "Ilend, you know very well how powerful Trueshot is. And you've never tried ta keep me out of danger before." Noting his concerned expression, the Wood Elf frowned and moved closer, her voice growing softer. "Ilend, ya know ya don't need ta be worried about me."

Sighing, the Guildsman shook his head. "I know, Aerin, I know. I just wouldn't want you dying." He scratched his chin. "Come if you want," he conceded. "But you're an archer; you'll be staying behind our battle line."

"Naturally," responded the Bosmer, reaching up to give him a friendly pat on the cheek before grinning widely and dashing off towards the East Barracks. The swordsman watched her go, easing his longsword in its scabbard. His sword arm would probably ache from overuse by the end of the day.

"I'm going with you," Gnaeus told him as the old Imperial fell in beside Ilend as he made his way down to the courtyard. "You young headstrong idiots need an old-timer to make sure you don't trip over your own feet."

"Well, don't let your arthritis slow you down, old man," smirked Ilend. "Walking sticks aren't easily come by in Oblivion, I hear."

"Maybe you should be thankful; if I had my hands on one, I'd use it to beat some sense into you every few minutes. And if I actually had arthritis, maybe you might stand some chance of keeping up with me."

Ilend barked a laugh. "You beating us to the Sigil Stone? Now _that_ I would like to see."

Gnaeus paused in the entrance to the Great Hall. "No, you won't see me for the dust, youngling," he claimed, before turning and walking in. Ilend chuckled, shaking his head before entering the East Barracks.

Aerin had thrown off her thick cloak and was busily counting the arrows in her quivers. Trueshot was already strung and leaning on the wall next to her. She looked up at his approach and smiled. "Finally we're seeing some proper action. That Ayleid ruin was a bit of a wash-out..." It indeed had been; a few inadequate skeletons had guarded what few pitiful treasures had remained. Her companion nodded in agreement and started shoving healing potions through his belt. "Hey, Ilend?"

The Imperial straightened and met her eyes as the Bosmer walked over. "I _will_ be careful in Oblivion," she told him, her voice serious. "I know how dangerous it is. I'll be as cautious as I have to be. I promise."

Ilend smiled. "You've been though Oblivion twice before, not to mention Boethia's Tournament," he recalled. "I think you're a tough nut to crack. And we'll be there in force. Just keep your wits about you and you'll be fine."

Aerin forced a weak grin. "I'm more worried about _you_, guardsman," she mumbled, twisting her fingers together behind her back and looking down at her foot, which was nervously pawing at the ground. "I'll be fine behind the guardsmen, but you'll be in the front line, and... how many times have you done this and survived? Your luck has got to run out some time, Ilend, and I... don't want it to."

"Luck?" Ilend pursed his lips as he thought it over. He had been lucky, true; surviving in Oblivion was often down to luck. Had he been more lucky than most? "Don't worry about me," he told her in what he hoped was an encouraging tone of voice, gripping her shoulder firmly. "I was trained for this. I've survived, yes, and that means I'm capable of surviving whatever Dagon throws at me, right?" He put his fingers under her chin and raised her head to look her in the eyes. "Besides, I can't leave you here alone. You'd die of boredom within two weeks." His smirk alleviated some of her nervousness, and she was just about to reply when Saliith strode in.

"Good to hear we'll be kicking some more of Dagon's hordes into next week," commented the Argonian to no-one in particular as he moved over to his bedroll and started equipping his armour, a savage gleam of excitement in his eyes.

"Didn't think you'd miss out, Twitch-Tail," responded Aerin, stepping back from Ilend. The lizard idly threw one of his pauldrons over his shoulder at her. It skipped along the wood floor of the barracks several feet from the Bosmer. She snorted contemptuously. "How did you ever become Grand Champion with a throw like that?"

"Because I never had an annoying Bosmer jumping up and down on the sidelines screaming encouragement," retorted Saliith, chuckling. He tightened the straps on his scale cuirass and moved to pick up the pauldron. "I _do_ have an annoying Bosmer, but they don't let him in the Arena. Thank Sithis for that..."

"Thank Agronak, ya mean," snorted Aerin, testing Trueshot's bowstring. "He hates that idiot even more than you do, I'll wager." She glanced over at Ilend, who had finished securing his potions and was running an expert eye over the edge of his blade. "Hey, Ilend, I need a favour."

The Imperial glanced up at her with a slightly raised eyebrow. "Sure."

She reached behind her and undid the simple band that held most of her auburn hair in its long ponytail. Her freed locks cascaded down her back. "I need your steady hand. This is getting a bit too long; it's scraping my arse, for crying out loud."

Ilend exchanged a quick glance with Saliith, who shrugged, before rising to his feet and taking a firm grip on his longsword. "I hope you don't want too much off," he said. "I'll admit that it must be annoying sometimes, having it that long, but..." his hand stopped short of fingering one of her loose tresses. "I _do _like it."

Aerin rolled her eyes. "So do I, guardsman," she sighed, gathering her hair and holding it in one fist, lifting it off her back. "Just take a foot off. Cut just under my hand."

Ilend muttered his assent and gripped the end of her hair in his left hand before bringing his blade down in the place she designated. The daedric steel, which could part chainmail and plate armour, cut through it cleanly and the Imperial was left holding a foot-long length of Aerin's locks. He resisted the urge to smell it and instead looked on as she angled two mirrors in order to get a look at his handiwork. After a few minutes of studying, she smiled gratefully and start securing her now mid-back length hair into its usual loose ponytail, still letting a few locks run loose over her ears and cheeks. The Guildsman curled a few individual hairs away from the auburn mass in his hands and put them into his wallet, shooting Saliith a warning glance to make the Green Tornado swallow his laugh. At that moment, Steffan walked in, putting on his helmet.

"Jauffre decided it's best for all his officers to have experience, so I'll be in overall command," he announced to all of them, checking that all four potions were secure in his belt and that his shield was firmly on his back. "We'll take a few Blades with us, but the bulk of our force will be the Bruma Guard. Let's hope your experience spreads, you two..." his gaze took in both Ilend and Aerin, who had two gates apiece. "Normally, Selene would be coming with us, and she's got a lot of experience, but Martin won't allow it. She's been translating for the past hour, and he says her going into a Gate might well kill her."

The swordsman pounded a fist into his palm in frustration. "Mages are worth several good men," he growled. "Selene would really reduce our butcher's bill. Do we have any other mages?"

Steffan nodded. "We're in luck. The Bruma branch of the Mages Guild was destroyed recently, but there's one of their number still in town. A higher rank – a Warlock, apparently – and a damned good mage, if she's to be believed."

"We'll be the judge of that," commented Aerin. "When do we leave?"

"Now," replied the Knight Captain. "As well as you lot, I'm taking Glenroy, Caroline, Pelagius and Roliand. That'll stiffen the core of our forces, if need be. Come on, waste no time." The Imperial secured his helmet strap and walked out into the courtyard. Ilend checked his sword and potions before following him. Saliith shrugged on a cloak and joined the Imperial in ducking out of the doorway, with Aerin following seconds later, wrapped in an even thicker cloak, which would be discarded the moment they reached Bruma's North Gate.

The five Blades, along with Gnaeus, Martin and Jauffre, were already at the head of the steps leading down to the Gate. "You all know how vital Bruma is to the defence of Cloud Ruler Temple," Jauffre was saying, his thin voice still carrying clearly over the wind despite his age. "Failure may well result in the deaths of us all. Come back to us in victory, and may your blades find their targets." The Grandmaster paused to salute each Blade as they started off down the steps. "May Talos guide you," he finished, his voice a whisper.

* * *

Having risen over carnage in Leyawiin, it seemed fitting that the sun should set over even greater carnage. The damage to the East Gate had been hastily repaired, and the hundreds of dead guardsmen laid out in rows for burial. There had been no celebration – too many had died – but the Watch had still been relaxed, sure that they had seen off the threat. So when a second Oblivion Gate opened outside the West Gate, it had sparked mass panic. Troops had rushed to hold the Gate, but the ground was swiftly growing as red as the sky above, which completely obscured the setting sun.

"Hold the line, you filthy weaklings!" roared Lurog, pushing a couple of wavering guardsmen back into the tenuous battle line that was barely managing to contain the hordes of daedra pouring out of the Gate. Watch Captain Draconis had been wounded by an arrow early on, and so had been evacuated to the Chapel with the rest of the wounded to join most of the population of Leyawiin, who were cowering on the holy ground in the hope of protection. Of the three remaining Watch Sergeants, two were incompetent and one had gone mad, hewing his way through several daedra before a blow to his head had knocked him unconscious. The Orc didn't hesitate as he stepped up to take command; he'd never commanded infantry before, but at least he was better than spineless idiots.

"They're not going to hold much longer," observed Mazoga, standing next to him. Her left arm was hanging limp; her shoulder had been torn open by a daedroth and there were no healers left. She was ignoring the blood running down her arm, however, and would fight to the last no matter what; her sword arm still worked fine. Her words were true, however; the Watch's battle line was bulging outwards at several places, threatening to shatter. Lurog had ordered Dralasa to hold back a short distance down the street; she still had some magicka left, but he wanted to use that in reserve to deal with any breakthrough, and she was the last remaining mage available. The Leyawiin Mages Guild, specialising in Mysticism, was of little real use in a battle of this magnitude, particularly as the only one competent in Destruction was insane nearly all of the time. Most of the mages were in the chapel helping the healers, ordered there by a Watch Sergeant who had no concept of how Mysticism worked; a few choice telekinesis spells could have wrought havoc in the daedric waves.

The temporary commander of the forces of Leyawiin sighed, gripping his mace tighter. He ordered what few reserves he had to one of the danger zones, but could do nothing about the other. Jerking his head towards it, he started jogging over with Mazoga in tow before a battle cry stopped him in his tracks. The Orc raised an eyebrow as Count Marius Caro, equipped in a suit of steel plate armour and roaring insults at the invaders of his city, led a small retinue of bodyguards into the fray where the fighting was hardest, making an immediate impact as his sword cleaved a scamp's skull in two. A ragged cheer went up as the surrounding guardsmen realised their Count was fighting among them, a cheer that soon spread throughout the Watch. The surge in morale stiffened their resolve, and they fought even harder.

However, heroics would not be enough; the Watch was quite clearly losing. Daedra kept pouring in through the West Gate, replacing the scores who were falling to the blades of the mortal soldiers. Count Caro's appearance had driven the daedra back in that section, but they were soon attacking with ferocity, swarming around the Count and cutting down his retainers. The Count himself was a surprisingly effective warrior, but eventually he met his match in a Dremora and went down with his stomach opened. Around him, the guardsmen surged forward, dragging their leader back out of the fray before two of them carried him into the Chapel for treatment.

Lurog forced himself into the fray, throwing back a Dremora with a shield bash then shattering another Kynaz's spine with an upwards swing to the groin. Beside him, Mazoga leapt to defend his back from a clannfear, groaning as she barged into it with her wounded left side, but managing to slice one of its claws off. It shrieked in pain and rage before it was pushed aside by a daedroth. The warrior slammed his mace sideways into its ribs, throwing it off-balance enough for his companion to leap at it and sink her blade up to the hilt into its chest. Unable to withdraw it quickly enough, she let out an involuntary grunt of pain as she followed it down and landed on her left shoulder. Lurog quickly dragged her up and pulled her back out of the battle line.

Her face was a lighter green than usual; the blood was still flowing down her arm, and her comrade gave her a choice of walking to the chapel on her own two feet, or having him carry her in after she fainted from the blood loss. Mazoga growled insults under her breath, but acquiesced when she saw that he was quite ready to carry her to the chapel even before she lost consciousness. The Orcish warrior turned back to the battle line in time to see it sunder in three places. Lightning bolts immediately struck into the mass of daedra, throwing corpses into the air, but Dralasa's magic could not hold them all back, and the battle line shattered. The discipline of the guards now counted for nothing as they were forced into individual duels, in which the daedra ruled. Mercenaries of the Guild and the Company were more individually skilled, but their numbers were still too low to have much affect. Lurog snarled as several Dremora rushed towards him. The Watch was being slaughtered. He would be among the dead, though he would sell his life dearly. Leyawiin had fallen, to be ravaged under the light of the moons...

The moons? The warrior looked up, eyes growing wide. Masser and Secunda were shining brightly through patchy cloud cover overhead. The sky was peaceful, a direct contrast to the raging inferno of black and red that it had been moments ago. Stopping in their advance towards him, the Dremora ignored the battle around them and turned as one towards the West Gate. Most of their comrades, excepting the few engaged in combat, emulated them.

In the centre of the empty gateway, amid the ruins of the destroyed gate, stood Gorgoth gro-Kharz. His usual battle snarl was firmly planted on his face, and a blood-splattered Blood King pulsed darkly in his right hand. As the battle petered out – most of the defenders were dead or watching Gorgoth with nearly as much apprehension as their enemies – the warrior-shaman slowly extended his left arm, palm facing downwards. An eerie calm spread over the battlefield.

Lurog narrowed his eyes and stared at the Leyawiin flag over the gateway; minutes ago, it had been hanging limply, but now it was straining at its pole. He felt nothing from where he was, halfway to the chapel. Apparently, the daedra were feeling it; several were looking around uneasily, raising hands in defence, leaning as though fighting a heavy wind. The flagpole snapped and the flag of Leyawiin was sucked into what seemed to be a swirling maelstrom of timbers, dead leaves, severed limbs, all spinning in a whirlpool in the air.

The first screams started as lesser daedra were swept off their feet by the ever-increasing wind, which was now howling louder than the inhabitants of Leyawiin ever had. Soon even the massive daedroths were being sucked in, along with every other living thing in the area, including a few unlucky guardsmen. Storm Atronachs were ripped apart, the flying stones killing many before they even reached the whirlwind. A few daedra and several guards got out of the danger zone in time before the nearby shadows were banished and the entire city was lit up as the air caught fire. Lurog threw his arm up to protect his eyes as the intensity of the fire reached him, boiling him in his armour and forcing him to stagger back.

It only lasted for a few seconds before burning out, leaving the Orc blinking as the afterimage slowly faded. Hundreds of daedra had been caught up in Gorgoth's spell. All that was left was a large mound of ash. The warrior-shaman calmly walked through it, displacing the grey remnants of what was once an army. For a few moments, everyone was stunned into silence. Then the first cheers rattled from the dry throats of the remaining guardsmen. Of the daedric remnants, most of the lesser daedra panicked and were cut down by the invigorated Watch. A squad of several Dremora united and moved to stand in Gorgoth's path. Lurog moved to help him, but his friend noticed him and waved him back, setting his feet firmly.

The six Kynaz – knowing their fate, with nothing to lose – charged, yelling useless insults. Gorgoth responded with a long, loud wordless roar, the power of which shook several timbers in nearby half-burnt buildings. The Dremora hesitated for a split-second, and the warrior-shaman took the opportunity. A dark disturbance in the air around the head of Blood King was the only warning to the Dremora who blocked the Orc's attack with his longsword; the blade was shattered along with most of the Kynaz's arm as he was thrown into the air, eventually landing at a guardsman's feet. Another opponent was dispatched with a simple blow to the chest, obliterating most of his torso, while three more were victims of chain lightning unleashed from the warrior-shaman's free hand. The remaining Dremora, grimacing but bravely attempting an attack, found himself smashed into the ground with enough force to drive him two feet into the earth.

Gorgoth looked up and met Lurog's eyes. There was fatigue spread throughout the warrior-shaman's demeanour – no-one could close and Oblivion Gate and destroy a daedric army without getting tired – but he masked most of it quickly and walked up to lay a hand on his comrade's shoulder. "A soldier arrived in Bravil this morning with a blown horse," he explained, his voice tired. "I abused Vorguz brutally in order to get here as fast as I could; I may have crippled him."

"Had you come ten minutes later, Leyawiin would have been ablaze," responded Lurog, sagging as the adrenaline leaked out of him, exposing him to the raw fatigue that was gnawing at him. "As it is, its people have paid a price in blood. Another Gate opening now would doom us all. Even you are not immortal."

He was right. There were not more than twenty guardsmen and a handful of mercenaries left outside the Chapel, and none were in any mood to celebrate; most had collapsed from exhaustion where they stood, and some few had trudged over to the chapel. Some more brave souls were filing out already, the joy on their faces fading as they took in the carnage that had befallen their city. Count Caro, stripped of his armour, stumbled down the chapel steps on the arm of one of his retainers, looking blankly at the piles of dead, wrinkling his nose at the stench of the blood-soaked field. In some places, the smell would never truly leave. Leyawiin was saved, but, like Kvatch, Dagon had left his imprint.

* * *

The Sigil Keep dominated this particular Plane of Oblivion; there were no other towers in sight, just endless, blasted plains of scorched earth and craggy rocks. It looked ideal for a large battle, but in fact the fighting was being done by a comparatively small detachment of the Bruma Guard, forty men strong with attached Blades and others. Captain Burd's strategy was working so far; using smaller groups had resulted in heavy casualties in other Gates in the past, but a sizeable force was able to dispatch daedric patrols easily. It had been split into two sections; Burd led the larger, consisting of thirty men, while Steffan commanded the Blades along with their 'attached others', supplemented by a few guardsmen and the Warlock from the Mages Guild.

Her name was Merissa. A somewhat chequered and highly eventful career had propelled her up the ranks in a remarkably short time, though her considerable magical ability – she was skilled with all schools, and masterful in Mysticism and Restoration – had clearly helped. She'd already proved invaluable, healing many crippling wounds and devastating daedra with elemental spells, but apart from her name and rank barely anything was known about her; the slender Altmer had been distant, even managing to seem distracted in the Deadlands. Despite the heat and her thick blue robe that marked her membership of the Guild, sweat never trickled down that heart-shaped face, and her honey-coloured hair remained neatly ordered in a multitude of thin braids that reached her shoulder blades. However, eccentricity was to be expected in the Guild, and as long as the High Elf kept up her support, her comrades didn't mind the fact that she rarely spoke more than a sentence to them at a time. Mostly, she kept muttering to herself under her breath in a foreign tongue.

Leaving a trail of daedric corpses in their wake, the two squads rejoined at the edge of what appeared to be a wide belt of open land stretching out nearly to the base of the Sigil Keep. Significant to the two captains was the complete lack of enemy patrols and the numerous short black spires jutting out from the otherwise flat landscape. More curious were the odd small, round objects that seemed to dot the plain. Four black prongs curled inwards towards a flame-coloured centre, and the entire thing appeared to be made of obsidian. Burd looked at one curiously for a few minutes, before taking a few steps toward it. As he approached, it leapt into the air, a light clanking noise apparent as it started to spin. The Nord staggered back, but too late; the disc exploded, sending a sizeable fireball towards him. Merissa's shield only just got between them in time.

"We have to get across an entire plain filled with those things?" asked Steffan, talking to no-one in particular, his face growing grim behind the anonymous cheek guards of his helmet.

"Well, I don't see any other way forward," sighed Ilend, scratching at the back of his head irritably. "You got any ideas, Merissa? This seems to be more in your domain than ours."

The High Elf blinked and stepped forward, her hazel eyes sweeping the terrain ahead. "Yes," she said simply. Her right hand whipped up, red Conjuration magic swirled around her arm, and two Flame Atronachs appeared in front of her, causing half the force to adopt a fighting stance before they realised the daedra were on their side. Ignoring the apprehension of her comrades, the Warlock pointed out in the direction of the minefield. The two Atronachs turned and, with a few feet separating them, started jogging across the plain. The mines in or around their path mines leapt up and discharged, but the fire merely seemed to invigorate them.

Burd nodded in appreciation. "I like it," he muttered. "Nice and simple." Turning to his men, his voice rose as he barked orders. "Single file. No deviating from the line. Follow the man in front of you. I don't want anyone getting fireballed." He led the way, waving for Merissa to follow him. "Shield us if one gets activated," he told her in a somewhat quieter voice, getting a distant nod in reply.

The Guard Captain did not have to fear for his men. Unwilling to be killed by what appeared to be a simple rock, they stayed in a rigid formation, slowly following the path the Atronachs had carved, keeping well to the centre of the passage. "I think we might be staying like this for a while," observed Aerin, keeping a hand on Ilend's shoulder to help her keep pace with the column, all of whom had longer legs than her. Behind her, Gnaeus snorted.

"Be thankful for the break, girl," he barked. "While this is boring, I'm sure you'll agree it's better than the chaos of close-range battle, the sort you'll get in that tower." The Sigil Keep was drawing closer with agonising slowness. His boot clipped the back of the Bosmer'sheel. "Come on, show a leg, girl. You wouldn't want this entire column trampling over you."

The Wood Elf rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath. Behind Gnaeus, Saliith was more preoccupied with the fact that his tail was refusing to consistently obey him, much to the consternation of the guardsman behind him. Up ahead, Steffan, walking behind Merissa, had given up attempting to understand her scattered random mutterings. He never had been good with languages. The two Flame Atronachs had long faded from existence, back to their own plane of the Deadlands. Which was hopefully not this one.

A new danger presented itself in the form of a nearby spire; the hot tip, looking similar to one of those mines, started spinning as the mortal column approached, emitting a louder clanking noise. It spat forth a ball of fire which impacted near the front, blasting four guardsmen out of the line and into the minefield. Those who hadn't died instantly were finished off by the several mines that activated, blowing their bodies to pieces. Burd snarled in anger at the relative helplessness of his men as Merissa blocked several more incoming projectiles.

"Can't you destroy that thing?" asked Steffan, glowering warily at the tower. Merissa nodded and extended a hand, Destruction magicka glowing a dark red in her palm. A grinding sound preceded the shattering of the head of the spire, the magical shield keeping the fragments from harming the soldiers.

"I hate those things already," snarled Burd, motioning for the column to resume their advance.

They made it across the plain without further incident, leaving four destroyed towers in their wake. The Sigil keep was closing, looming overhead, but the squad – having split into two again – had some rough terrain to traverse, and enemy patrols were certain.

"I don't like this place," growled Steffan as the tail end of the other squad disappeared behind a large rock formation. "Too good for ambushes for my liking. They could have archers and mages on every rock."

"They probably do, so keep that infernal racket down," warned Gnaeus. Steffan turned slightly purple, but ignored the old man's impertinence; the situation was too serious, and, besides, he was right. "That goes for you two as well," the hermit continued, turning to point a gnarled finger at Ilend and Aerin. "Don't think I didn't see you two flirting on the walk over. If you're going to start screwing in Oblivion, do it out of earshot."

"You appear to be breaking your own rule of 'keep that infernal racket down', Gnaeus," observed Saliith innocently, fervently hoping that the sharp-tongued Imperial would succeed in making it through Dagon's realm without being killed by either daedra or his increasingly annoyed comrades.

"Quiet!" snapped Glenroy, who was in the lead. He held up a clenched fist and slowly raised five fingers, lowered them and made a motion to the left, then raised three fingers. Fifteen enemies up ahead. The Imperial – who had quietly stolen Goldbrand from Martin's study without anyone noticing, in a similar fashion to what Baurus had done once – crouched behind a rock, peering out at the enemy as he was joined by Steffan. Fifteen Dremora, spread out in a line, were combing the terrain, their deep red eyes constantly searching.

"We can take them," muttered the Knight Captain, awkwardly crawling backwards to join his force. They were equal in number to the Dremora, but one of them was a powerful Altmeri mage who could dispatch them all with little effort. However, he told her to save her magicka and ordered his men to hinge themselves on the rock formation to their right, sweeping around to hit the Kyn head-on. He emulated his soldiers and lifted his shield into a fighting position, drawing his katana. Glenroy, beside him, did the same, but left Goldbrand sheathed for the moment; the light could give away their position. Placing himself at the far left of the line, Steffan checked that his men were in a good order of battle – Merissa was staying behind the line, ready to send a few lightning bolts at the enemy before the clash – before motioning for them to advance.

They'd barely formed up in time. The Dremora quickly drew into sight, the more alert Kyn raising the alarm and drawing their weapons. Almost as one, the two opposing sides let their battle cries fly from their throats and charged. Aerin shot down one with an arrow through his throat, while two lightning bolts from Merissa struck down five Dremora, their shattered bodies flying into the air and bouncing off the rocks. Then the lines closed and she watched the melee unfold dispassionately.

Steffan's shield got in the way of his opposite number's mace, but he felt the entire shock travel up his arm and staggered backwards. The Imperial grimaced; it had been decades since he'd last been in the field, and if he was making recruit mistakes like blocking a mace when he could dodge then he had give himself a kick up the arse. Advancing, the Dremora raised his mace for an overhead attack, only to find his arm held there by his opponent's extended shield as the Imperial attempted to run him through. Skipping backwards so the thrust glanced off his plate, the Dremora brought the mace down, swinging at Steffan as he advanced, but the Knight Captain dropped a shoulder and moved just enough to dodge the heavy head. As it hit the ground, he stamped on the Kynaz's weapon hand and decapitated him with one strong swing.

Most of the Dremora lay dead or dying. Outnumbered, they had succumbed quickly to the mortals, leaving only one wound as their legacy. This wound – a deep gash on a Nordic Bruma guardsman's forearm – was swiftly healed by Merissa. Any surviving Kyn were swiftly and mercifully finished off instead of being left to die slow deaths and the squad continued on towards the Sigil Keep.

The two squads met up again at the base of the tower, minus four casualties from Burd's section; resistance had been stiff. Upon clearing the ground floor of the Keep, the Guard Captain organised his men into four different sections, each to make their way up their tower to the Sigil Stone. Anything more than a squad of ten would have difficulty fighting effectively together in the tight corridors. They set off in different directions, each with a good chance of overcoming whatever the daedra threw at them.

Gnaeus, Saliith and Caroline led seven Bruma Guardsman up the narrow ramp that spiralled around the very edge of the Sigil Keep, on the outside. If logic was to be believed, this would be a more direct route to the Sigillum Sanguis, with fewer diversions or opposition. However, Dagon had never been known for his logic, and it wasn't long before daedra started pouring from a side passage.

Saliith immediately leapt into the fray, a throwing knife taking a Flame Atronach in the neck as his shortswords turned aside a Dremora's swing. Ducking under another attack, he swung upwards with both swords; the Kynaz was only able to dodge one of them, the other taking chunk out of his neck. Snarling as his severed blood vessels started spurting blood, his opponent threw himself at the Grand Champion, hoping to break him by smashing him down the ramp, but only succeeded in sealing his fate as the Argonian tripped him up. No time to relax; he was forced to sidestep quickly in order to avoid a lunge by a scamp, who had its spine severed seconds later by Caroline's katana. "You're welcome," she told him, her voice light given the situation as she turned to block a Dremora's broadsword with her shield.

Gnaeus, who throughout the Oblivion Crisis had refused to don armour over his brown wool tunic, was once again defying his years by darting around to dodge a daedroth's wild swings. One such swing caught a Bruma Guardsman in the navel, and he was thrown back down the ramp with a gurgling scream as his entrails showered themselves over his comrade's heads. Gnaeus used the opening to lunge forward and sink his blade up to the hilt in the lizard's thick hide, ignoring the blood spurting over his hands as his weapon pumped in time to the daedroth's heart. He rapidly withdrew his blade and backed away as the mortally wounded creature sank to the floor, its tail thrashing.

Wincing at the heat emanating from the Flame Atronach that was trying to hug him, Saliith stabbed it in the chest with both shortswords and screamed in agony as his arms caught fire, throwing down his superheated blades as the Atronach crumbled. Frantically attempting to beat out the flames, he was surprised by Caroline applying a weak frost spell to the area, leaving him with nothing but some very painful burns. "Just about the only magic I'm capable of," she shrugged, sheathing her katana after cleaning it on a scamp's hide. Realising that the fight was over, Saliith nodded his thanks and downed a powerful healing potion.

Much of the same followed; they moved methodically up the tower, dispatching daedra that periodically attacked them. Fortunately, the Bruma Guard, forewarned, had come well-stocked with potions, and as there were three other squads in the Sigil Keep, the daedra could not concentrate as much on one; they had to split their forces, thus weakening their defence. Gnaeus remarked that they would probably be fortifying the Sigillum Sanguis heavily, but Caroline countered that by pointing out that the mortals would be back at full strength for that assault. Losses were relatively light; by the time they had almost reached the top of the Keep, they'd only lost two Guardsmen.

A door at the end of the passage led them back out into the central column, around the spire of pure magicka. After so long in the comparatively dark tunnels, most of the squad shielded their eyes, but Caroline managed to make out another squad above on the opposite ledge, finishing off a token daedric attempt at stopping them. They met just as Aerin pushed the last Dremora off the ledge, the Kynaz roaring in defiance rather than fear as he fell to his death and painful rebirth.

"Steffan and Merissa are ahead of us for sure," Roliand told Gnaeus as they started off up the ledge. "They'll probably wait for us before trying to get the stone, though. That High Elf can certainly carve through their ranks." The Nordic Knight Brother grunted in admiration then got back on with business. "Burd, Ilend, Glenroy and Pelagius are somewhere below us; they had the stiffest resistance, we heard." Aerin's face tightened as she looked down the open space around the column of magicka, attempting to locate the named squad on one of the ledges.

"Well, if they get left behind, it's their own fault," grunted Gnaeus, striding on ahead and grumbling to himself. Roliand – who had been sensitive ever since the death of his friend Haesmar – recoiled, then fell back into the ranks, growling slightly. Caroline shot him a sympathetic _don't mind him_ look.

The doors to the Sigillum Sanguis were surrounded by soldiers, awaiting the word of their commander to break in and put an end to the battle. All were tense, and two moved to attack Gnaeus before recognising him, moving aside to let the two squads pass. Steffan – who was resting with a boot on the back of a dead Dremora – nodded to them in greeting as he swigged from his canteen. "None dead here," he reported, as he took the news of four dead between the two squads stoically. "Merissa's pretty good at breaking up attacks." The Altmer in question was leaning on the rail at the edge of the ledge, staring at nothing in particular.

"Well, I just hope she's got some magicka left," observed Saliith, leaning on the wall next to the nearest entrance to the Sanguis and taking out his canteen. "Here's hoping Burd and the rest make it through."

Gnaeus harrumphed. "We don't need them, lizard-rat," he growled, spitting into the column of magicka. "Near enough twenty men and a mage are enough to storm that place."

"Well, now you've got near enough thirty," rumbled Burd as he led his somewhat more ragged column up the ledge towards them. "Three dead," he reported. "Bastards fought tooth and nail. A minute's rest, and we'll be ready to end this."

"Twenty-five men and a mage to take a single Sigil Stone..." mused Steffan. "No arguing over the honours, people," he told them, smirking. He turned to one of the doors and forced it open, cautiously poking his helmeted head through. After half a minute, he stepped through fully and motioned for his men to join him. Burd took the other half round to the other door on the opposite side of the tower, taking Merissa with him.

Roliand was the first man to stride into the Sigillum Sanguis proper, and was promptly hit by a Silence spell flung by a Dremora mage in the upper levels. This affected the big Nord even less than the bite of a flea would, and he roared as he plunged into a melee with several daedra. Within seconds, the rest of the mortal invaders had joined him. Merissa, safely concealed by a chameleon spell, kept up several shields to stop magic from decimating the ranks as they slowly pushed back the waves of daedra eagerly snapping and swinging at them.

Gnaeus had been right; this was by far the heaviest resistance they received. However, he had also been right by saying that twenty men, supported by a mage, could storm the place; protected on his left by Ilend's sword, and on his right by Roliand's shield, the old man could concentrate on cleaving through daedric flesh and bone with minimal risk to himself. Parrying a Dremora's lunge, he watched as it was knocked off balance by a swift blow by Roliand, then moved forward himself and stabbing downwards through his armpit to finish the job. A collection of screams marked the place where a daedroth had charged into the fray and sent six men flying, one of them with a shattered ribcage. It was swiftly neutralised by a surgical bolt of lightning from Merissa.

Glenroy, wielding Goldbrand with the experience of long years with a katana, severed a Dremora's leg and leapt forward, swinging the blazing blade in a wide arc, cutting down several unfortunate daedra. Bruma guardsmen rushed in to fill the void, smoothly turning to flank those oppressing their comrades on either side. This breakthrough meant the invaders were surging towards one set of steps, their counterparts forming a rearguard. Saliith, the most agile there, avoided a clannfear leaping at him and started sprinting up the steps, pushing off two Dremora who stood in his way. At the top he was confronted by a mage; he now had no more protection from the shields of Merissa, but he need not have worried; she was systematically cleaning the upper levels with accurate bolts of lightning and frost. As this particular Dremora lowered his staff to aim at the Argonian, he was forcefully thrown into the wall, his body smoking, by her ball lightning.

Dashing to the ramp leading to the Sigil Stone, the Green Tornado's progress was finally blocked by a Xivilai. Casually batting two throwing knives aside with telekinesis, the ash-skinned daedra's battleaxe cleaved through the air towards Saliith with rapid progress that belied the weapon's weight. As he rolled out of the way, the Xivilai managed to change the axe's flight path so that it merely grazed the ground instead of being embedded in it and was able to block the Argonian's double-bladed riposte. As he prepared for another attack, the daedra staggered sideways, one of Aerin's arrows jutting from his ribcage. The Bosmer had just ascended the steps and was lining up another shot, but a screeching clannfear leapt from above and knocked her off-balance, sending her plummeting back down below. Saliith had already sunk his blades deep into the wounded Xivilai's chest and shoved him out of the way, running up the ramp towards his prize.

It was guarded by a Dremora. A high-ranking Dremora, given the size of his horns. Drawing a massive warhammer from his back, he stepped towards the incoming Argonian, only to find himself the victim of a swift sliding tackle that knocked him off his feet. He got up instantly, but the damage was done; Saliith had plucked the Sigil Stone from the spire of magicka. Howling with rage at the defeat, the Kynaz rushed towards him, only for Saliith to frustrate him by dancing out of the way, staying out of reach until the fires consumed both of them.

Several of those in the plane of Oblivion had closed Gates before, but not with so many men with them. It seemed that the teleportation magic was crude; it simply dumped them outside in front of the gate, regardless of numbers. Thus, Aerin could only wheeze helplessly until Burd hauled his considerable bulk off her, having fallen on top of her. Gnaeus, in the same position, growled and shoved another hapless Bruma guardsman off him and stood up, brushing at some dust on his tunic.

Burd walked forward and raised his sword in a clenched fist. Cheers of victory rang out from the survivors, from the defenders, from the guardsmen lining the city wall above them. Some of their number would never return, but in comparison to the bloodbath at Kvatch, in comparison to the hard battle at Skingrad, eighteen men was a small price to pay to close one Oblivion Gate. Now that they had defied Dagon, they knew they could do it again.

* * *

**A/N: OK, quite an action-filled chapter, but you'll get some more plot soon enough. Leaving a review will always help.**


	35. Perseverance

**A/N: It's been too long, again... blame the writer's block that crippled me for over a week. Also, I seem to getting less reviews than average these days... seven reviews for a chapter is still a lot in this fandom, but if you're reading and not reviewing... well, get reviewing.**

**Nameless: Gah. I mention Malacath so much, and Boethia so little, that I do that sometimes. Fixed that... Anyhow, it's a bit like a black hole in that the wind forces everything in its radius into a vortex, I guess. As for Mannimarco, he won't get much screen time, I can assure you.**

**Underpaid Critic: Disappointed? No, no, every review is valued. Anyhow, that's good to hear; Martin's easy to make ordinary in fanfiction, so it's good to hear that I'm at least making him remotely interesting.**

**Scytherian Poetry: Good to see another review from you. That said, I always keep my promises: major characters WILL die. In fact, I've worked out that less major characters survive than die. They just haven't started dying yet (Also, Haesmar was a Blade, not a Bruma guardsman). There WILL be deaths in future.**

**Random Reader: In war, people die. That goes for the exceptionally skilled people as well as the rank and file. Without character deaths, there'd be little realism. As for the Blades, they'll definitely have a part to play in future; after all, Martin does have two major battles to fight, and they'll be there for him.**

**Also, many thanks to Arty Thrip, who beta-ed this chapter (and the last two beforehand) after I posted it. You might not be able to review on FF, but you're still making a valued difference.**

**Thanks to all who reviewed, and for those who didn't, try it sometime. I need constructive criticism in order to give you a better read. Now, the chapter...**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-five: Perseverance**

Gentle was not a word commonly associated with Gorgoth gro-Kharz, yet that was the only way to describe his treatment of the stallion in the miraculously untouched Five Riders Stables. The Orc had removed his gauntlets and was softly stroking the horse's nose and flanks, listening attentively to his breathing. Vorguz's breath, though recovered slightly, was still pained; a harsh wheeze would occasionally rack his lungs. His head hung limply; his eyes were dull, that once-dominant spirit all but gone. In covering the distance from Bravil to Leyawiin in just a few hours, his rider had broken him. Magic could only do so much.

The warrior-shaman patted him one last time and walked out of the stall. Vorguz had served his purpose. "See to it the he gets a good retirement," he told the ostler, thrusting a bag of gold into the surprised Khajiit's hands. "He's not likely to be any good to anyone, not now. But he deserves some good years of peace." Peace. That would always be a foreign concept to Gorgoth. Deep down, he knew he would never truly be at peace. Too much had happened. He shook his head and brushed past Atahba, leaning on the doorway of the stable, looking out at the midafternoon sun shining on the remnants of the second Oblivion Gate. His own dried blood, thick on his armour, was a constant reminder of how hard closing it had been. Dagon was improving.

With the Leyawiin City Watch now reduced to just over fifty men, the protection of Leyawiin had been supplemented by both the Blackwood Company and the local Fighter's Guild. Such a circumstance was only temporary – mercenaries would never normally be hired to uphold the law – but the tension was already evident, shown on the grim faces of two Guildsmen as they walked through the gateway, which was protected by a group of about six Company members with an equal number of guardsmen. Each group had lost men in the fighting, but some animosities went too deep to be entirely forgotten even in times of crisis.

A nearby footstep reached Gorgoth's ear, and he turned his head slightly. "You've been avoiding me," he observed as Mazoga stepped out of the shadows.

She walked up and stood in front of him, folding her arms and staring into his eyes with a challenging air about her. "I seem to recall you ordering me to avoid you," she retorted.

The warrior-shaman snorted. "That was ten months ago," he countered, keeping his face expressionless. "The circumstances have changed somewhat. I never expected to end up in Cyrodiil, the champion of the people, fighting against Dagon..." He started putting his gauntlets back on. One was slightly dented, rubbing harshly against the back of his hand. He dismissed the sensation; to him, pain was a buzzing fly, easily brushed away and ignored. "Even now, I never sought you out. But I did what I had to, in the past."

"No," growled Mazoga angrily, poking his chest with a meaty finger. "You can think that all you want, but you didn't _have_ to send me away, no matter what your weird logic or your honour or even your stone heart told you. I _could_ have stayed." Her voice grew slightly softer. "I _wanted_ to stay."

Gorgoth shook his head. "You know my reasons," he told her. "When I respect someone, like someone as much as I like and respect you, I will not willingly hurt them. And you _would_ have been hurt had you stayed."

"Utter bollocks," snarled the warrior, taking a step closer and pushing her face to within inches from his. "I figured it out, Gorgoth. When have you ever cared for anyone but yourself? That is, when have you cared about someone who _doesn't_ further your own self-enhancement, that doesn't make you stronger, give you more power?" The Orc growled and shoved both arms into his chest. Strong as she was, his feet stayed firmly planted to the ground, his body only swaying slightly. "You cared about your sodding _horses_ more than me!" In the stables, Vorguz gave a tired snort.

"They got me where I needed to go quickly," replied Gorgoth, meeting her eyes, keeping his own emotions tightly guarded. As usual. "But if you believe that, then you never truly knew me."

Hot anger flashed in her amber eyes and she briefly caressed her sword hilt before thinking better of it. Opening and closing her mouth a few times, she finally managed to splutter some words. "This isn't over. Wherever you're going, I'm going." Not giving him a chance to reply, she turned and stalked off, angrily kicking away a stray dog that had been hunting for scraps.

Her fellow Orc watched her go with folded arms, aware of Lurog walking back from the Gate to stand behind him, following his eyes. "Emotions can be very confusing sometimes," mused Gorgoth. His comrade quirked an eyebrow. "After all that time, I can tell she still loves me. Odd."

"Love is an odd thing," agreed his old friend, falling silent for a few seconds before changing the subject. "When are you planning to leave? I know you said you wanted to get back to Cheydinhal quickly."

"As soon as I see the Count and inform him that my saving his city is worth the best horse in his stables," replied Gorgoth, rolling his shoulders and walking off in the direction of Leyawiin. Lurog grunted his assent and walked into the stables, giving Vorguz a soothing pat before checking on Astakh. At the first signs of danger, his horse had got loose and it had taken his rider a while to find him; he'd been about two miles away from the Gate, blood dripping from a deep wound to his flank. Crimson was also splattered around his mouth and on his shoes; it was clear that the warhorse hadn't been easy prey for the daedra. After healing and rest, the stallion was as ready as ever, only his discipline preventing him from stamping impatiently as the Orc stroked his mane.

"Mazoga's pissed," commented Dralasa as she strolled in, the hay crackling under her bare feet. In contrast to most people in Leyawiin, the Dark Elf was both clean and cheerful. "I wonder if their tale will have a happy, romantic ending?" She chuckled at the absurdity; happiness was regarded by Gorgoth as something enjoyed by others, not by himself.

"The words 'Gorgoth' and 'romance' should not even be thought about within minutes of each other, let alone mentioned in the same sentence together," snorted Lurog, smirking. "Are you packed and ready to go? We're leaving as soon as our unromantic comrade can intimidate a good horse out of Count Caro. Given that he saved Leyawiin single-handedly, you'd think that the Count would bend over backwards to accommodate him."

Dralasa's piercing laugh resounded around the stable, jerking a few equine heads up. "I don't think I'll ever hear of a count doing that," she cackled, leaning on Astakh for support. Used to her nature, the warhorse didn't react. Lurog smiled in response and looked up as their mutual friend returned to the stables, walking over to a powerful-looking bay horse. Mazoga trailed a short distance behind him, looking sullen and resentful, going over to her own horse as the warrior-shaman checked over his new acquisition.

"Not bad," he conceded, attaching his saddlebags to his steed's saddle after he'd transferred it from Vorguz. "Not sure how he'll stand up to my weight at a gallop, but we'll see." The Orc turned and looked all of them in the eye in turn. "I'm going to Cheydinhal. My business there is my own. Go to Cloud Ruler Temple and stay there. That way, you'll be in the thick of it when the real battle starts."

* * *

Burz gro-Khash had already been informed of the recapturing of the fugitives; Captain Lerus's dispatch rider had been faster than Gorgoth. However, that didn't stop him from asking for a blow-by-blow account of the Defender's exploits, somewhat amazed that he had sent them back to prison rather than just killing them. The hard-to-please Guardian gave a satisfied nod when he finished. "Impressive," he rumbled. "Killing them would have been simpler, and most boots would have gone for that. But not you." The Orc scratched his chin and handed his compatriot a sealed letter. "Seems you're Oreyn's new favourite. He sent me this to give to you."

Gorgoth took it and saluted to Burz's back as the Guardian turned and walked over to his bed. Stomping down the creaking stairs, he cracked the seal open before lowering himself cautiously into a chair to read Oreyn's missive:

_Gorgoth,_

_I need you back in Chorrol. Now. Meet me in the Guildhall; I'm sleeping there right now. I can't stress how urgent this is. Seeing as you seem so military, I trust your green hide won't be slow in obeying this order._

_Another thing: Acting on my own authority, I've promoted you to Warder. A lot of people – particularly Ah-Malz, the poor sod – are going to give me hell, but the fact is that right now I need higher-ranks I can trust. Normally you take years to reach that rank. Betray this trust and I'll put you down myself. Now get back here quickly._

_Oreyn_

The newly-appointed Warder crumpled the note in his fist, gazing contemplatively up at the ceiling. It was evening outside – it had been four full days of riding from Leyawiin to Cheydinhal, with his new horse solid but nowhere near as good as Vorguz – but Oreyn was right in saying that he would come to him as soon as possible. Across the room, Ohtimbar looked briefly up at him as the Orc stood up, before going back to sharpening his dagger. Gorgoth ignored the Altmer and entered the hallway, only to find the door bang open and an eager, excitable young Dunmer Apprentice by the name of Relen Sathis rush into the Guildhall, his words too fast and confused to be followed. As Ohtimbar walked out into the hall, the warrior-shaman grabbed the Dark Elf's shoulder and shook him. "Slow down," he commanded.

Sathis, his grey skin flushed, visibly collected himself. "An Oblivion Gate opened outside the West Gate," he claimed, words pouring swiftly from his mouth as his audience grew. An Associate dashed off to get Burz. "The Guard has held back the first assault, and the Knights of the Thorn have gone in. I'm getting a slice of the ac-" He turned before he'd even finished his sentence, clearly intending to sprint all the way to the front line, before he was hauled back by an irritated Burz.

"Calm yourself," snarled the Guardian. "We'll see action, boot, most of us, but you're not charging into battle until every one of us is good and ready. Hold your horses." Turning back to most of the Cheydinhal Guild – around thirty strong – he wasted no time in barking orders. "Arms and armour. Waste no time. Get your lazy arses into gear." Amid the mad scramble to equip themselves, the Orc turned to Gorgoth. "You go ahead," he ordered. "See what you can do." While Burz loved battle, he was wise enough to know that the longer the Gate stayed open, the more likely it was that Cheydinhal would end up like Kvatch. No man would want that fate for their home.

Cheydinhal was not quite in chaos, but panic was certainly evident on the streets. Columns of guardsmen raced about, generally heading towards the West Gate, but that was the only order visible. Several families were already fleeing towards the east side of town, or towards the Chapel; the portal to Oblivion visible over the top of the wall induced haste, as did the foreboding black-and-red sky overhead. Gorgoth walked down into the street, ignoring a near-hysteric Imperial man who ran straight into him. Picking himself up from the ground, the citizen ran off towards the Chapel, casting terrified glances towards the impending danger. Fear was thick in the air.

The West Gate was being barricaded with timbers, so Gorgoth instead climbed up onto the walls, looking down on the area below. Leaning on the outer wall, he observed that the Black Waterside Stables - whose horses were renowned throughout Cyrodiil - was burning, the horses dead or scattered. A handful of dead guardsmen and lesser daedra were scattered around on the ground outside; the first attack had been a weak one. Standing a few feet to his right, Captain Leland was bellowing orders, waving his arms around and generally giving a display of decisive action. His domestic policies might be questionable, but Leland was at least a competent soldier, if an ill-mannered one.

"What the fuck do you want?" he snarled as Gorgoth walked up. "I don't have the time to babysit sodding mercenaries..." his voice trailed off as he recognised the warrior-shaman. He cocked his head to the side, peering up at him suspiciously. "Oh. It's you." The Breton grunted, glancing towards the Oblivion Gate. "The Knights of the Thorn, a band of pricks with over-inflated egos-" The irony was so great that a nearby guardsman bashed his head against the wall to stop himself laughing "- have decided to kill themselves by charging into the Gate. A bunch of under-trained imbeciles who think their swashbuckling, mythic adventures are actually real." Leland paused to spit. "Thing is, they're led by the Count's son, Farwil Indarys. So it's your job to go in there and babysit him. Close the Gate and try to keep him alive, _hero_." The Guard Captain turned away from Gorgoth and bawled for a messenger to fetch the Mages and Fighters Guilds.

The warrior-shaman wasted no time in swinging himself over the parapet and jumping to the ground below, much to the amazement of most people watching him. A Slowfall spell saw him down safely and he straightened before walking briskly off in the direction of the Gate, which was situated on a small hill about half the height of the city wall. It was just out of bowshot, but the Cheydinhal Mages Guild had a greater range, and would be invaluable on the walls. Cheydinhal's Guard was not as good as Leyawiin's – far from it, having one of the worst reputations in Cyrodiil – but they would do a creditable job.

As he walked up to the portal, Gorgoth drew Blood King from his back. He had closed several of these gates by now, yet each one was unique. He knew basically what to expect, but none of it was exact. Wrapping a shield spell around himself to protect against a potential trap, he entered Oblivion. He'd grown used to the sensation of burning and ignored it the best he could, arriving on the other side alert, immediately looking around, casting a Detect Life spell and looking around quickly. There was nothing living in the immediate area.

However, there were several corpses. A handful of Dremora and lesser daedra had been killed, and around them about an equal number of mortals lay dead. Their armour was identical; steel plate with the sigil of the Knights of the Thorn – a sword, pointing downwards, wrapped in thorns – on the chest. The Warder ignored them and focused on the terrain. He was standing on a ridge overlooking large parts of the Deadlands; from his vantage point, he could see a clear path to the Sigil Keep, across lava and through formations of rock. Nothing exceptional. Continuing onwards, he found himself at the edge of a cliff. A path off to the left beckoned to him, but if Farwil had been persistent and foolish enough to continue, Gorgoth need to waste no time in intercepting him.

He launched himself off the cliff, keeping his feet pointing firmly towards the ground as gravity sent his bulk hurtling towards the earth. Casting a Slowfall a few metres above the end of his fall, he went down on one knee, ascertaining that there was no danger before looking around. To his right, pressed against the side of the cliff, was a path that led to a bridge across the lava. To his left was the entrance to a cave, which presumably led back up the cliff top. Seeing no corpses on the path, the Orc turned towards the cave; much as he disliked the idea, finding the remnants of the Knights – most particularly Farwil – was of importance. Dying in Oblivion could be a heroic way to die, but no doubt the Count would be grateful to whoever brought his son back alive. And an indebted Count was a good asset to have.

Before he could enter, sounds emanating from the cavern warned him of something approaching. As he adopted a fighting stance, the voices became closer and distinguishable as mortal, and after a few moments two bloodied figures staggered out into the relative light of the Deadlands. One was a tall, stocky Imperial with most of his face obscured by a helmet, whereas the other one was quite clearly Farwil Indarys. As well as sweat and blood, the long-haired slender Dunmer reeked of nobility. Both were clutching battered shields and chipped swords; when they caught sight of the threatening Orc in front of them they instantly became warier, crouching slightly, eyes fixed on him and the malevolent-looking mace in his right hand.

"I am Gorgoth gro-Kharz," stated Gorgoth, running his eyes over them analytically. The Imperial seemed fairly competent – none of the blood was his own and his blade was chipped in several places, indicative of profligate use – but Farwil was clearly hopeless, already having a dent in his armour and a sword that was mostly clean. The very way he held himself clearly showed he'd never been in battle before this, and what training he'd had was either forgotten or basic. The look of innate superiority about him, however, would probably never change. "Where are the rest of you?" The warrior-shaman didn't suppose any of their comrades had survived – happy-go-lucky opportunists would get short shrift in Oblivion – but it was always best to confirm the forces at his disposal.

Farwil drew himself up, lowering his sword, frowning at the Orc in front of him. "My comrades have given their lives in the valiant pursuit of closing this Oblivion Gate," he announced as though addressing a crowd to commemorate his future victory. The Dunmer continued more bombastically: "Myself and Bremman will press onward and close this vile Gate to save Cheydinhal, no matter what the odds may be. You will join us, Orc, as our numbers have been somewhat depleted."

Gorgoth folded his arms and looked Farwil in the eyes. His Imperial companion – Bremman - groaned quietly and shrank back, squeezing his brown eyes shut. Brashly meeting the Warder's gaze, Farwil blinked then faltered as Gorgoth leaned forward, driving the knight a step back. He'd dealt with idiots of this kind before. "Listen well, Indarys," he grated. "You are a fool. A dangerous fool. You have lead ill-trained men in here on a whim and most of them are dead. You will follow my instructions to the letter until I have seen you safely out of here. I have no patience for your idiocy." The warrior turned and stared walking down the path. "Stay behind me. I will deal with any threats."

Farwil spluttered before recovering himself and running up to plant himself firmly in front of this new, unpleasant companion. "I will _not_ be ordered around by some greenskin who has no notion of command. _I_ am in-" he was cut off by the Orc walking right through him, knocking him aside and staggering him.

"I do not have time for your pathetic games, Indarys," Gorgoth told him over his shoulder. Farwil's eyes filled with loathing but he fell obediently in beside Bremman, a few paces behind the warrior-shaman, talking in whispers. The Orsimer ignored their talk and focused on locating any danger. Two lone clannfear wandering aimlessly around were dispatched by bolts of lightning before either of the two knights behind him had even seen them. There was no other resistance until they reached the bridge, which was lightly patrolled. Most notably, several Dremora were standing guard at the end they were approaching.

The over-enthusiastic Dark Elf, ignoring his protector's earlier instructions, uttered an ear-splitting "_Huzzah!_" which alerted every daedra within half a mile, and charged towards the enemy, waving his blade flamboyantly. His companion joined him in a rather more subtle manner by merely drawing his sword and matching his pace. For a second, the warrior-shaman was tempted to leave the Dremora to slaughter them but instead sprinted towards them himself, overtaking the two knights on the way before slamming Blood King into a Dremora's torso. The air around the mace's head pulsated darkly as the shattered Kynaz was launched into the lava. Three more enemies were fast approaching, but Gorgoth threw out his glowing hand; a freezing blue cloud materialised above the Kyn, shimmering for a few seconds before blasting frost magicka down upon them with such ferocity that even the scorched earth of the Deadlands froze solid.

Bremman was shocked enough by this to stagger to a halt, but Farwil continued on, waving his sword at the two remaining Dremora. They seemed unimpressed, circling around to attack him from both sides. Their bodies abruptly jerked as a powerful telekinesis spell plucked them into the air and threw them into the lava. Farwil lowered his sword, looking disappointed, then turned to Gorgoth, who was stomping up to him. "You should have-" The Dunmer was cut off by the Orc's finger stabbing into his chest with enough force to make Farwil step back.

"I did not expect you to listen to me the first time, but you will listen now," he snarled, forcing his face to within inches of Farwil's, who recoiled, wrinkling his nose. "Clearly you are a dim-witted upstart with no creditable brain in that thick skull, so I will use simple words. You will stay behind me. You will not engage the enemy unless I give you permission. You will not do anything except defend yourself unless I give you permission. Do you understand, or do I have to use smaller words more suitable for brain-dead goat-fuckers?" Farwil was so terrified by that cold amber gaze boring into his skull that he could only nod meekly.

The warrior-shaman snorted and turned away, walking off across the bridge. "Keep an eye on him," he commanded the shocked Bremman as he passed. "He is not fit to be off his mother's apron strings." The two knights, neither of them speaking, fell in behind Gorgoth, looking slightly more subdued. Two scamps wandering about on the bridge failed to rouse them, and were swiftly dispatched by lightning bolts. They also hung back and let him deal with the minor resistance at the other end, consisting of two Dremora and a daedroth. Bremman clearly stayed out of it due to a sense of self-preservation, whereas Farwil was clearly frustrated at his lack of involvement. If that frustration ever overcame his fear, stupidity on his part would almost certainly ensue.

One distinct path twisted away from the bridge. The Orc led the way, ignoring the mutterings of the two knights behind him. He would keep the wayward son alive and in a fit state to dump at his father's feet, but that allowed him significant leeway for discipline. His suspicions were confirmed as a party of four Dremora appeared around a rock formation; Farwil's "_Huzzah!"_ rent the air and he charged them, waving his sword around, his Imperial comrade at his side. Their ignored protector followed at a slower pace, walking with Blood King hanging by his side.

The Kyn drew their weapons and two moved to take each knight. They contained Farwil's attacks easily and started to push him back. The Dunmer – who up to this point hadn't seen much battle, his knights instead fighting and dying in his place – lost his look of eagerness, which was replaced by a look of determination, and then desperation as a blade sliced through his armour and opened his thigh. Gorgoth looked on impassively with arms folded as Farwil fell to the ground, panicked. The Count's son had a clear view as the other daedra gutted Bremman before decapitating him. He whimpered as his dead comrade's head rolled past him. One of the Dremora kicked it out of the way and raised his mace, pausing to make sure his aim was correct.

Abruptly, all four of the Kyn were snatched into the air with a telekinesis spell, their attacker dragging them higher before throwing them away, watching them smash down onto the rocks below. Farwil, wide-eyed at his escape, struggled to his feet and glanced around, catching sight of Gorgoth. He hobbled towards the Orc, his face a mask of fury. "What do you think you're playing at, greenskin?" he shouted, purple blotches of anger starting to spread over his cheeks. "I could have _died_ there! Bremman did die! What the fuck were you just standing there f-" The rest of his words were cut off as the somewhat irritated Warder backhanded him, sending the Dunmer crashing to the ground, his cheek torn open by the Orc's gauntlet.

"You are the most pompous, lazy, arrogant waste of space I have ever had the displeasure of fighting with," growled Gorgoth, punctuating his words with a kick into Farwil's ribs. The Dark Elf's armour absorbed most of the blow, but he still cried out in agony. Bending over, the warrior-shaman hauled him up by his throat until they were eye-to-eye. The hapless Dunmer's feet kicked helplessly several inches from the ground. "The only reason I haven't killed you yet is because you're worth more to me alive than dead," Gorgoth told him. "However, if you do not obey my orders from now, I will leave your broken corpse as food for the clannfear." His victim could only whimper, that cold gaze instilling fear that no words ever could. The Orc sent healing magic pumping through his body, healing all the wounds it came across, before throwing the knight to the ground.

"Keep up, or I will leave you behind," grunted Gorgoth, scanning the horizon as Farwil stood up on shaking legs. "I have no time for children." The Orc started off down the path, ignoring Bremman's headless corpse as he strode past it. After a few seconds of hesitation, the last remaining Knight of the Thorn jogged up to uncertainly walk beside him. His companion eyed him sideways. "You truly know nothing," he observed. "Move over. This close, we make one target for a fireball and not two."

Earlier, the Dunmer might have been tempted to point out his resistance to fire, but his terror prevented him from doing anything but obey, moving apart and walking a few metres from him. Oddly, there wasn't much resistance; either this part of the Deadlands was sparsely populated, or the daedra had left the Gate into Nirn without being noticed. There was little chance that the Knights of the Thorn had disrupted their assault enough for it to be cancelled. However, neither elf was known to curse good fortune whenever it visited them.

This lack of resistance continued all the way to the foot of the Sigil Keep. Used to the sight, the warrior-shaman merely opened the doors and stepped in, but his companion stood still, looking up, awed by the sight until a grunt jerked him inside. The Dark Elf became even more awestruck inside, however, as he laid eyes on the column of pure magicka. He wouldn't have noticed the two Xivilai charging towards them unless Gorgoth had thrown one into the wall right next to him. Growling at the pain of a broken arm, the ash-skinned daedra hauled himself to his feet, batting aside Farwil's blow with ease and kicking him into the opposite wall. Groaning, the future Count of Cheydinhal feebly attempted to rise, but he needn't have bothered; a bolt of Destruction magicka froze the Xivilai solid. Farwil staggered to his feet and looked on as his Orcish saviour battered down the other daedra's defence and shattered his ribcage.

"Stay close to me," rumbled the warrior-shaman, walking towards a door leading deeper into the Keep. Compliance was immediate. A scamp screamed in fear and fled for its life as the two mortal intruders approached, heading up the spiralling passageway towards the Sigillum Sanguis. An icicle in its torso sent it tumbling back down past them. Further resistance was dealt with entirely by Gorgoth, with his useless comrade relegated to the role of a spectator on most occasions. Blood King's desire for blood and conflict would never truly be sated, but the slaughter now wrought by its wielder would make even Malacath approve. Watching his protector tear the opposition apart, Farwil shuddered as he realised that he was completely at his mercy.

It was not until they were over halfway to the Sigil Stone that they met significant resistance. Three Dremora emerged from the shadows, all of them attacking simultaneously from different angles. Gorgoth's dai-katana rasped out of his sheath and he blocked two swords while twisting so that the third glanced off his armour. Blood King's riposte shattered one daedric blade and left its wielder wide open for the Orc's dai-katana, which promptly cut his throat open. The fallen Dremora's comrades, however, had taken the opportunity well; one moved towards Farwil as the other slid his broadsword though a weak point in Gorgoth's battered armour, penetrating his ribcage.

Grunting, the warrior-shaman spun, throwing the Kynaz off-balance as he attempted to retrieve his sword. Within seconds, the steel head of Blood King had crushed his skull, scattering fragments of bone and brain over the ground. Staggering forward, Gorgoth looked over at the final Dremora – who was on the verge of dismembering Farwil – and shattered him with ball lightning. The Orc resisted the strong urge to sag as he sheathed his dai-katana, the broadsword in his ribs sending sharp stabs of pain throughout his body every time he moved. He had been lucky; an inch higher and the rib would have deflected the blade into his heart instead of protecting it. "Remove this," he told the worried nobleman, gesturing towards the hilt.

The Dunmer obediently wrapped his hands around the guard and threw himself backwards, putting his entire weight into extracting the weapon. As it came free, he dropped it in shock, falling onto his back and wheezing as the air left his lungs. Gorgoth ignored him and healed his wound, spitting blood from his mouth before hefting Blood King once again. The crimson liquid staining his prominent canines made him look even more menacing than usual. "Keep that," he grunted, nudging the broadsword with his foot. "It is better than that blunt butcher's knife you are using." Without waiting for him to pick it up, the Orc took one last look around the passageway before ducking through the door up ahead.

By the time the knight had managed to catch up, after abandoning his shield and hefting the heavy broadsword in both hands, Gorgoth had mown through the opposition and stood waiting at the entrance to the Sigillum Sanguis. As the Dark Elf joined him, panting, the warrior-shaman thrust out a hand to stop him. "I will enter the Sanguis alone," he rumbled. "It will be too dangerous in there for me to watch out for you. When it is safe, I will call you in." He turned and walked through the doors, letting them slowly slide shut behind him. Farwil leaned back against the wall and sighed.

The Count of Cheydinhal's son wasn't used to waiting. For almost all of his life, his every whim had been catered for immediately. Nothing had been denied to him. He'd lived the pampered life of a nobleman, a self-styled head of an order of knights he'd founded. But now he found himself fully prepared to wait. The realities of what he'd got himself into were now hitting him hard; the bodies of his knights – _his_ men – were proof that war was not a game. Before the Oblivion Gate appeared, the Knights of the Thorn had numbered twenty. Now, there was only one left. Farwil was feeling increasingly pathetic, increasingly guilty. He'd led his companions to their deaths on a whim, a vain hunt for real glory. There was no glory here, not for him; for someone of his limited abilities, Oblivion held only death for him. Death and despair.

It was despair that forced him to his knees, despair and guilt. Nineteen good, honest men had come to Oblivion because he wanted them to. It was his ambition, his self-confidence in his own exaggerated abilities that had led them to their deaths. Farwil had failed them. He had failed their families. He had failed Cheydinhal. He had failed his father. And now that his own self-assurance had vanished, the young Dunmer had no idea what to do. He was completely reliant on his last surviving companion. Helplessness wasn't something he was used to feeling.

Sighing shakily, Farwil rested his head back against the obsidian walls of the Sanguis, only to jerk upwards to his feet as the door next to him opened. Angrily scrubbing at his wet cheeks and keeping his head down, he followed Gorgoth meekly through the chamber, past the daedric corpses littering the ground. Another reminder of his own weakness: any number of those daedra was the match of any Knight of the Thorn, yet the Warder had scythed through their ranks as though their claws and blades were made of wood.

The warrior-shaman walked up to the Sigil Stone and plucked it from the spire of magicka. Having now closed several Oblivion Gates, he was prepared for the wall of fire racing up at them from down below, but Farwil wasn't; he squeaked in terror and threw all inhibition away, clinging to Gorgoth like a child clinging to his father. The burning sensation washed over both of them before the magic of the portal deposited them outside the collapsing Gate. Wide-eyed, the Dark Elf slowly disentangled himself and stepped back, staring at his boots. "Gorgoth, I..." his voice trailed off, unable to find the words.

Folding his arms, the Orc stared down at his fellow survivor. "I have little patience for pompous cowards," he rumbled. "Say what you are going to say."

"Thank you." The words seemed to leech the tension out of Farwil, and he sagged. "Thank you for saving me, and... protecting me. Azura knows I didn't deserve it. I cannot repay you." Realising that he was still carrying the heavy daedric broadsword, he dropped it, letting it fall to the earth. He was no warrior; he didn't need it any more.

"You cannot repay me, true." Gorgoth tapped a canine. "But your father will want to know what has transpired. Move." It was the early hours of the morning if the moons were any indication, but any half-decent father would grant an audience to the saviour of his only son.

That audience would take place, in normal circumstances, in the County Hall of Castle Cheydinhal. The Hall was typically opulent, with a rich green carpet running the entire length of the room and elaborate tapestries covering the high stone walls. Even the ceiling was covered in a decorative mural. Several tubs spread around the edges hosted exotic plants, and hangings from the balcony formed a backdrop for two elaborate, well-carved wooden chairs. The entire room spoke of extravagance; clearly, the ruler of Cheydinhal did not care for subtlety.

As it turned out, Count Andel Indarys did not have to be woken as Gorgoth has suspected; he hadn't slept since news of the Oblivion Gate and his son's involvement had reached him. The Dunmer was sitting in one of those chairs somewhat anxiously, his blue fingers scratching his receding scalp, his sharp red eyes darting around. Those eyes rested on Farwil and widened in shock before adopting an expression of delight as the ruler of Cheydinhal jumped out of his chair and embraced his son, ignoring the blood and grime splattered over his once-fine armour. "I never thought I'd see you again!" he exclaimed.

His heir nodded soberly. "I would not be here if it were not for Gorgoth, father," he muttered, his voice low and somewhat stiff. Count Indarys frowned before turning to his son's saviour, looking him up and down analytically, taking in the battered, filthy armour; the chiselled, weathered face; the blood still staining his mace. A threatening figure, for sure.

Indarys gave a short bow. "I am forever indebted to you for saving my son," he said, his voice and eyes grateful. "I have no doubt that you have saved him and done a fine service to Cheydinhal." The Count drew them a few steps away from Farwil and lowered his voice. "He can be... boisterous at times, but he is still my son. It cannot have been easy for you, but... thank you, nonetheless." Gorgoth merely inclined his head slightly. Indarys briefly struggled for words under the intensity of that cold gaze. "I can never fully repay you, but... I do have a reward in mind. There are two old family heirlooms in my possession; the Staff of Indarys and the Thornblade. Please, choose one."

"The Thornblade," intoned Gorgoth. He needed no new sword, but it might well be considered an insult to the Count if he refused. And both of them knew that a sword would not wipe out his debt. Indarys sent for it and stepped back over to his son, engaging him in quiet conversation. A servant soon arrived with a sheathed sword, handing it to the Count who presented it to Gorgoth with many flourishes. The Orc took the Thornblade and drew it, observing the intricate design, running a finger down the slightly serrated edge. A good longsword, even without the enchantment that would burn through armour like it was paper. He nodded in appreciation, sheathed it, and thrust the scabbard though his sword belt around his waist. If nothing else, it was a good counterweight for his potions. Remembering his orders from Oreyn, he turned to leave.

Indarys stepped up to him. "I realise you have pressing business, of course, but... I will always be happy to see you in Cheydinhal." Farwil added his own stammered thanks, looking slightly brighter already. The Count took Gorgoth's hand in both of his, pumping it vigorously. "Once again, thank you. If there's anything more I can do..."

"I'll know where to find you," finished Gorgoth. "For now, keep your Guard on high alert . From what I saw of that Gate, it did not look like a serious attempt to take the city. It was more of a probe. Dagon is growing more profligate."

Indarys frowned, clearly worried. "You mean there could be other attacks?" he asked. Behind him, Farwil closed his eyes and groaned softly.

The Orc nodded. "Probably," he confirmed. "You are likely to come under attack by more than one Gate at once. Expect ladders and battering rams, and possibly other siege equipment. I will leave it to you to take the necessary emergency measures. Do not let this city fall."

Snorting, the Dark Elf stiffened his back, probably insulted by the insinuation that he might not take action of his own accord. "Dagon will not take Cheydinhal while I draw breath," he announced confidently. "We will be ready for whatever he throws at us. You have my word on that." It was easy to see where the younger Indarys had got his confidence from, but at least his father had power to back it up with.

Satisfied, the warrior-shaman stepped around the Count and left the Castle, heading down to the West Gate where the Guard was still on high alert. Ignoring the various accolades and cheers, he left the city and stopped. Bathed in the moonlight, the ruins of the Black Waterside stables revealed that they had been completely destroyed. Any horses that hadn't been meat for the daedra were probably miles away. He cursed, quelling the frustration threatening to rise within him. The journey to Chorrol might take longer than Oreyn expected.

* * *

"So you're saying that Ocato has _refused_ to help?" grated Jauffre, his fists tightening as he leaned on his desk.

Burd nodded, his face a thundercloud. "Said that he had so many problems to deal with in the provinces that he couldn't even spare us a century. General Phillida was forced to defer to him." The Nord folded his arms over his yellow surcoat, clearly struggling to control his desire to hit something. "We can't count on any help from the Legion." The other Blades present in the Grandmaster's office – Steffan and Renault – grimaced.

"My contacts tell me that Ocato does have a point," claimed Renault. "There's a lot of unrest in the provinces, and that's even without the invasion tearing the continent apart. The Legion has lost thousands already. Ald'ruhn in Morrowind is a devastated husk."

"Damn the bloody provinces!" shouted Burd, finally snapping and slamming his gauntleted fist into the wall. "Can't that blockhead see that the decisive battle will be fought _here_, on his very doorstep? Dagon isn't going to give up, and if Bruma falls, the Empire falls! It's only luck that's preserved us from even more Gates!" Since the first Gate had been closed, Bruma had been subject to only one more attack. That portal had been closed easily enough, and new recruits were filling the gaps left by dead guardsmen, but Bruma could not stand alone for long.

"Calm down, Burd," grunted Steffan. "Destroying the Grandmaster's office isn't going to solve any problems." Snarling, the Nord slowly folded his arms, taking visible efforts to control himself. The Imperial Knight Captain kept scratching his receding hairline. "We need more men... that is true enough," he mused. "But where do we get them from? The Blades are strong, but our numbers are few."

Jauffre spoke up, still studying his cluttered desk intently. "We could ask the other cities for aid," he started. The Breton's head rose, his intense brown gaze belying his years. "Each city that has been attacked will know of our plight. All we have to do is make their rulers understand."

Renault sighed. "That won't be an easy task. They'll understandably want to protect their own cities. But if they can be convinced the blow will fall hardest here..." She shrugged. Her superior nodded in her direction. "I'll do my best, Grandmaster," she told him, saluting before leaving to make the necessary arrangements.

Burd nodded. "At least here I know that _something_ will get done," he said. "Bruma cannot stand alone for long, Jauffre. We need aid. The Countess is trusting you to find it for her."

The old Breton slumped down in his chair. "You'll get it, Captain," he assured Burd, his voice fatigued. The experienced Nord - recognising a succinct dismissal - saluted and left, ducking through the doorway and leaving the Grandmaster alone with the Captain of the Temple Garrison.

"Do you think this will work, Marcus?" he asked quietly, his old eyes sliding half-closed, his face a picture of age and exhaustion.

"It will, Reynald," replied Steffan confidently. "If the Counts and Countesses have any notion of duty, they'll send at least some aid." He paused. "However, they'll only do that if they can be convinced their cities are secure. Some are yet to have been attacked by Dagon. Those cities will be the most nervous. Anticipation is a powerful force."

Jauffre fully closed his eyes. "We can't induce Dagon to attack them," he sighed. "But we will do what we have to do. Assemble a squad that can be used to respond quickly to any reports of danger. Bruma must have allies." The Imperial nodded and left the room, being careful to close it quietly behind him. It was clear that the Breton's health was fading; the once-mighty warrior was a burnt-out shell of what he once was and everyone in the Blades knew it. A final, climatic battle would invigorate him for sure, but until then the pressures of his high office and the dark times were slowly crushing him. The Knight Captain sighed and shook his head as he walked. It had been years since the Grandmaster had been so intimate.

Pausing, he leaned against the wall, removing his helmet and running a hand through his short greying hair. When Jauffre passed on, he would be the next Grandmaster; that was almost certain. He had nearly a decade's experience on Renault, and while she was an excellent handler of agents, she wouldn't take well to running the entirety of the Blades. She never had been the best when working with interpersonal problems, and management of large organisations occasionally flummoxed her. But was Steffan ready for the responsibility? If his superior died soon, could he lead the Blades to victory against Dagon? The men liked and respected the forty-seven year old veteran, and he had seen several wars, but... none like this. Grimacing, the Imperial stiffened his spine. He was a Blade, oathsworn to his Emperor. He would do his duty, no matter what that might be. There was no time to waste worrying about his future. For now, he would focus on his task. Throwing himself into his work had always been an escape for him, and it would prove to be now.

The Knight Captain put his helmet back on walked into the Great Hall. Caroline was in front of the fire, enthusiastically showing an audience of Ilend, Aerin and Saliith how she had once gutted two bandits at once. Gnaeus was in a quieter corner, reading a book, and an equally quiet Lurog was shaping a wood carving, shavings collecting around his boots as he wielded his knife skilfully. The companions the Orc had arrived with – he recalled their names as Mazoga and Dralasa – had decided to stay in Bruma. When asked about it, Lurog had simply shrugged and muttered something about privacy. Steffan was secretly relieved; he was willing to bet that within two days the mad Dunmer would have blown something up.

"The decisive battle is going to be near Bruma," he announced, ignoring Caroline's pout as she was interrupted.

"We knew that already," observed Gnaeus drily, waving his book at him in a shushing gesture.

Steffan folded his arms. "And we won't be getting any help from the Legion." Gnaeus's book dropped from his grasp. Ilend gaped in astonishment, Aerin frowned, and Lurog muttered something about honour. Saliith rose and narrowed his eyes.

"Do we _need_ their help?" he rasped, ignoring Caroline's sidelong look of incredulity. Several of the other Blades in the room were following the exchange with unconcealed interest. "I mean, the Bruma Guard is tough and it's getting plenty of volunteers," continued the Argonian. "We've got mages, and I'm pretty sure some mercenaries will show up. Who needs the Legion?"

"We do, you stupid lizard-rat," snarled Gnaeus, getting to his feet. "If we don't have overwhelming strength of numbers, that daedric bastard can bleed us white. We _need_ to be able to hold out here until that bloody ritual gets deciphered. How long is that going to take, anyway?" he asked, shooting sharp glances around the room, as if any of the listeners knew anything about the finer points of decryption of highly complex daedric text.

"I don't see you making a fucking suggestion!" snapped Saliith, his patience with the old hermit's constant barbs wearing thin.

"Jauffre already made one," Steffan told them, raising his voice to cut off the Grand Champion's furious retort. "The field legions might have deserted us, but the City Guards will feel a sense of kinship with Bruma. They will send aid if they feel safe. Combined forces can hold off Dagon for long enough to complete the translation for sure. Martin is over half-way done already."

Lurog spoke up. "It would take a foolhardy Count to strip his defences when the danger is so great," he observed, holding up his as-of-yet unidentifiable figurine to the light of the fire to study it. "Another Gate could open at any time outside their cities."

"It's a risk," admitted Ilend slowly. "But wouldn't Dagon be concentrating his forces here instead of throwing them around the country?"

Gnaeus snorted. "Read the news more, whelp. Dagon is invading the entire bloody continent. He's got millions of daedra to throw at us."

"Have you ever given anyone any good news, old man?" asked Aerin casually, swinging her legs up to hang over the arm of her chair.

He shrugged. "A few times. I mostly left it to others. Smiling doesn't suit me."

"What we need to do is-" Steffan was cut short by a worried Jena hurrying into the Great Hall, snow billowing around the doorway before the oak doors swung shut. Sudden, violent gusts of wind chilled the bones of even those closest to the fire. The Imperial ignored the discomfort she'd caused and immediately stepped up to her superior.

"Bruma is under attack again," she told him, somewhat breathlessly. "The Guard has beaten back the first wave and has sent a large squad in, but we need to be on high alert. Anything could happen."

The Knight Captain nodded and raised his voice, booming out instructions. "Double watch. Rouse the sleepers and put everyone on alert. Inform the Grandmaster." There was a scrambling as the Blades rushed off to ready themselves. Saliith and Gnaeus also left along with Lurog, who mentioned going down to Bruma to stop Dralasa and Mazoga doing anything stupid.

Steffan sighed and walked up to the fire, gazing despondently into the flickering flames. Aerin rose to her feet and slowly walked over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Ya know... I always try ta look on the bright side of life," she told him. His eyebrows rose. When he had joined the Blades those long decades ago, he hadn't expected something approaching counselling from a twenty-year-old Bosmer. Her accurate reading of his expression also surprised him. "Yeah, we're in a bit of a pickle," she continued. "We don't even know if we'll last a week. But... enjoy life while ya can, or it's wasted... right?"

"If I lose focus to 'enjoy life', people I'm responsible for might die," responded the Imperial, turning his head slightly to observe her in his peripheral vision. Despite her proximity to him, her features were slightly blurred; years of paperwork had taken its toll on his eyesight, though thankfully it was only the edge of his vision seriously affected thus far. "I can't lose focus, Aerin; I have a job to do."

She sighed, exasperated. "Why does everyone around here take this whole damn war so seriously? Come on, if we've got a high chance of dying, let's at least have a bit of fun before it's over!" The Wood Elf threw up her arms in frustration. "Why do people always have to be so obsessed with something that they forget to do anything else except prepare?"

"_That_ is exactly what I've been preaching all my life, Aerin," chipped in Caroline, who, predictably, had yet to leave the Great Hall, let alone don her armour and weapons. "Hopefully, some more stick-in-the-muds come around to our way of thinking..." She walked out, her mutterings clearly distinct to all of those with good ears: "I want to get laid so badly..."

"Sometimes, Aerin..." Ilend scratched his chin. "You make a lot of sense. We've got to be prepared for war, but..." He shrugged. "She's right, Steffan. Don't let this consume you. I know how it feels..."

The Knight Captain grunted. Hadn't he been dwelling too much on the future mere minutes ago? They had a point. How often had he told his men to make sure they wound down? How many times had he empathised the disadvantages of a dry fort to Jauffre whenever the Grandmaster had raised concerns of excessive drinking? The Imperial searched himself for a good reason why he didn't enjoy the same liberties given to his men and came up blank. He had never thought about it like that before. A captain had to be an example, but he didn't have to try to emulate Stendarr. "You have a point," he admitted, sighing. "But right now, I've got to make sure this fortress is ready for anything Dagon throws at us. Excuse me."

Aerin stepped back as he turned and strode out into the courtyard, instinctively lowering his head against the wind and snow that immediately started battering at him. Nearly two dozen Blades were already lining the battlements, looking down at Bruma. Steffan joined them, squeezing in alongside Jauffre and Selene. The Oblivion Gate was just visible to the east of Bruma, a distant flickering of flame through the snow. "Not much to see," observed the Grandmaster, his wizened face red because of the biting wind. "I trust Burd to handle this one on his own. What do you think, Steffan?"

"I agree, Grandmaster," replied the Imperial. "These conditions would delay us anyhow, and the most we can spare are twenty men. Burd now has over six hundred at his command. He might be back in the city by now, but if not his second in command is more than competent right now."

"I could go," pointed out Selene. The half-elf was wearing a thick cloak, but the two men could feel the warmth of her heating spell. She could certainly make the journey quickly enough with that to heat her and a shield to keep the snow from her. However, the Mysterium Xarxes was clearly draining her; more often than not, she fell asleep in Martin's rooms through pure exhaustion, which understandably led to much discussion and smirking in the barracks. But the fact was that she wasn't in the best shape. Steffan shook his head.

"I don't think Martin would advise you to overexert yourself, Selene," he told her. "I haven't seen you sparring with the men for days now. That bloody book is taking its toll. I'm no scholar, but I think that four hours translating you do every day is too much."

She opened her mouth, probably intending to disagree, then closed it again after realising he spoke sense. "We've got to work hard," she said finally. "We can't afford to slacken; what if Tamriel burnt because we were too slow?" She sighed. "Better I burn out than millions of people."

Steffan grimaced and gripped her shoulder, half in comfort, half in reprimand. Earlier, he'd have admired her dedication, but now Aerin's words were echoing within his head. "You don't have to kill yourself," he told the battlemage. "You need to relax once in a while. Keep your energy up or you'll just be decreasing in effectiveness the whole time. Go on, go to your room and grab some rest, then take some time out. That's an order." Technically, he couldn't give her an order due to her not being in the Blades, but she was still a guest in his fort.

The half-elf grunted. "Martin wouldn't-"

"Martin would agree with me," claimed the Knight Captain, folding his arms. "The last thing he wants is for his co-worker to die of exhaustion and corrupting influences." On her other side, Jauffre was nodding in agreement. "Get to bed. I'll put a guard on your door to make sure you're not interrupted."

Turning, Selene considered for a few seconds before smiling gratefully up at him. "You're right," she agreed. "I _do _need rest. But I need to do my duty as well."

"You're already doing it very commendably. But a soldier cannot fight an endless battle. You are no different. Now sleep." She nodded and left, her cloak swirling around her ankles as she walked back to the Royal Wing. Steffan returned to leaning on the battlements. "I think the same goes for you as well, Reynald," he muttered, using a tone too low for the surrounding Blades to hear. "This doesn't look to be anything more than a single Gate. Bruma can handle it. You go and get some rest. You look constantly tired these days. I can run the Blades for a few hours." He had run the Blades for several months at a time during Jauffre's semi-retirement, so the Grandmaster knew he could trust him.

The Breton grunted. "Call me if _anything_ happens," he instructed before slowly stepping away from the battlements and heading back to the warmth of the Great Hall. More proof of his ageing; a week earlier, he would have resisted the mere idea of extra rest vigorously. The burden of command shifted onto Steffan's shoulders, an almost tangible weight. Better that he bear it in a relatively low-risk situation such as this than an ailing man on the brink of physical and mental exhaustion. He moved around, giving the expected orders and staying on the battlements despite the weather until the portal to Oblivion flickered and collapsed. Smiling, he dispersed his fellow watchers and ordered them back to normal duty, turning back towards the welcoming temple.

He was walking towards his office, intending to get some infernal paperwork done, when Renault fell in alongside him, keeping away from the snow he was beating from his helmet. "I've sent a messenger to each Count in Cyrodiil," she told him. "They'll pick up the seal and approval of Countess Carvain in Bruma before setting off."

"How have you worded them?"

She hesitated. "Firmly." That meant that she would be putting a lot of pressure on the Counts to do their civic duty. Maybe the diplomatic hand of Carvain could add something. The Imperial sighed and opened the door to his small office, motioning her in first before closing the door behind them and throwing his helmet and gauntlets onto his overcrowded desk, flopping down in his stiff-backed chair and nodding for her to emulate him.

As the Breton made herself comfortable, removing her own gauntlets and sweeping loose her long brown hair before leaning back in her chair, her fellow Knight Captain withdrew a bottle of flin and two tumblers from a nearby drawer. "I figured we could use something to ease our minds," he explained, pouring a generous amount into both glasses and pushing one across to her. She smiled gratefully and drained half of it.

"Needed that," she observed, wiping her mouth as Steffan pushed the bottle to the middle of the table. "I also sent a messenger to General Phillida, privately. Unlike Ocato, he's not restrained by bucket-loads of bureaucracy, and he knows a lot of people. He might be able to help."

Her companion nodded sagely, running a finger around the rim of his tumbler. She always had been excellent at this kind of thing. "Good idea. What about the Fighters Guild? They have strong, good men."

Renault snorted. "Mercenaries," she muttered, draining the rest of her glass and refilling it. Excellent, but also overly judgemental in places. "We might have money in the coffers to hire them with, but I prefer reliable troops who fight for more than just money."

Waving a hand dismissively, Steffan poured more flin into his glass. "When they see the Gates of Oblivion opening and hordes of daedra pouring over their city walls, they'll have a better reason to fight," he observed. Resting his head back against his chair, he stared up at the ceiling, letting silence move in for a few minutes. "Jauffre's not going to last much longer, Cas," he said abruptly.

She stared at him, her expression sombre. "We've both known that since he started his retirement," she agreed. "He was a good Grandmaster, but he's past his best." Her voice dropped. "He's not going to live to see the end of this war, I think."

The Captain of the Temple Guard leaned forward again. "We might all survive," he insisted. "We can't predict the future. Martin and Selene could finish translating this very evening, we could get what we need within a few days, get the Amulet back, and light the Dragonfires within a week. It probably won't happen, but it might." The Imperial reached for the bottle again, but thought better of it. "Hope for the best, prepare for the worst," he sighed. "How long is it since you've shared your dinner with the ranks?"

"Not for a while..." She frowned. "Not for a long time. Not since I was made Captain of the Imperial Bodyguard... why do you ask, Marcus? It's never been my inclination, you know that."

"It might show solidarity in this troubled time. Anything to help morale..." Steffan ran a hand over his face. He could all too easily see how the burden of command had aged Jauffre prematurely; the Breton had been completely grey by forty-six, only five years into his long tenure as Grandmaster. Shaking his head, the Imperial refilled both tumblers. "I'm tired, Cassandra. Today, I took advice from an elven girl barely out of her teens. Not something that happens often, but right now I just want to forget this stress for a bit." He took his flin and leaned back in his chair, putting his feet up on the table. "Remember the good old times, when we were just lowly Knights Brother and Sister? Following orders and beating up criminals in Elsweyr?"

For the first time in a few days, Renault chuckled, emulating him and putting her boots up on his already mutilated desk. "Now that you mention it..."

* * *

**A/N: Apologies if this chapter seems substandard, but the writer's block got so bad I wrote anything I could. I managed to get over it, but... judge the quality of the end product for yourselves. Hopefully you won't have to wait as long for the next chapter, either. Do NOT forget to leave a review. They help and encourage me, and it's only a few minutes of your time, so if you've reached this far, leave a review.**


	36. Rising Tensions

**A/N: More than three weeks for another chapter... again? Yes, yes, I know, but inspiration has been woefully lacking for me at times. However, with clear material to work with for the next chapter, hopefully it won't take as long. An****yhow, thanks to all those who reviewed (particular thanks to HunterAzrael, who clearly has bionic eyes as he read the entire thing in under twenty-four hours, leaving a much-appreciated review for each chapter). As for those of you who didn't review... well, you know what I'm going to say. Reviews can only help me, people. Let's see more of them.**

**Underpaid Critic: It's MEANT to be mundane; daedra-humper assumes that the humper in question is strong enough to make a daedra his bitch, so it might actually be complimentary, whereas I doubt anyone but the sick-minded could find anything to admire in humping a simple goat. Anyhow... Mazoga, Gorgoth's weakness? Come, you should know him well enough by now... in any case, thanks for the review.**

**Scytherian Poetry: It's times like this I wish some of my anonymous reviewers had profiles so I could reply properly... I guess I'll just reply to the most important bits. Anyhow, Oreyn's letter; it wouldn't do him good to be insulting when he badly needs Gorgoth to do something both efficiently and quickly, given the respect he now has for him. You might see more insults in future, though; he'd insult Uriel himself if the situation was right.**

**As for that 'rouse', it meant that the presence of daedra were failing to get Farwil and Bremman up for a fight due to Gorgoth's intimidation. Also, I'm assuming Bruma has a population in the high thousands. That would give Burd a sizeable Guard, and in this time of crisis, he would probably be getting quite a few volunteers without even resorting to conscription. Expect the Bruma Guard to get even bigger.**

**Rambling? Maybe, maybe not; I've always liked commentary, though there's also a lot to be said about concise advice. Review the way you prefer, as long as you actually review. Thanks for that one, by the way.**

**Random Reader: That probably saved your sanity, as that damn Dunmer is a pain to keep alive... a lot of people hate him, for good reason. And... Saliith as Sheogorath? That won't happen, purely because the SI plotline is moving along in the background. Ilend mentions it in Chapter 25. There'll be a new Sheogorath, but don't expect them to take much of the limelight.**

**And so here is your new chapter. Don't forget to review.**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-six: Rising Tensions**

It was known as the Forsaken Mine by residents of the nearby city of Leyawiin for good reason. The ore had long since ceased to be profitable, and the subsequent abandonment had left it easy for trolls of the Blackwood to take up residence. This was a concern to the residents of the nearby city, and they had contracted the Fighters Guild to eradicate the infestation. Oreyn had dispatched a squad of several Guildsmen who had entered the mine a few days before the attack on the city, and nothing had been heard of them since. They had been largely forgotten by Leyawiin, but not by Modryn Oreyn. It was easy to see why he had called it a 'sensitive' assignment; Viranus Donton had been among their number, put in command by the Champion to give him more experience.

The Dark Elf had taken Gorgoth to the privacy of his office in the Chorrol Guildhall and explained the delicate situation; ever since the death of her eldest son, Vitellus, Vilena Donton had become increasingly unstable and ineffective. Oreyn was managing to hold the Guild together, but if she lost her last remaining son, it would almost certainly push her over the edge and spark chaos within the Guild. As the Dunmer dispatched Gorgoth on his mission, he'd seemed resigned; he knew that there was little chance of Viranus still being alive. He'd had the look of a man who knew something cataclysmic was going to happen soon.

Swinging himself from the saddle, the warrior-shaman tied his horse to a nearby rock, absently patting her mane as he studied the entrance to the mine. He'd stolen the black mare from a newspaper courier and she'd served him well so far, having both speed and stamina. Making sure she could reach what little sparse grass there was amongst the mud of the Blackwood – it had rained for two days – he squelched over towards the entrance.

The half-rotted wooden door opened to his push and the Orc stepped into the mine, summoning a globe of light above his head to banish the darkness. Walls covered with moss and slime met his gaze; no part of the cavern was dry. Moisture hung in the air, clinging to his armour, and a stench reached his nose. Trolls always left a foul smell wherever they stayed, but there was also the scent of blood, both human and elven. Crouching down, Gorgoth's fingers touched a bloody footprint illuminated by his light. It had been made by someone leaving; that much was evident by the direction. Scraping a finger through the dried substance, the Warder grunted. It was crimson; it hadn't come from a troll.

Straightening, the warrior-shaman moved further into the mine, casting a powerful spell of life detection. Several shimmering figures appeared in his field of vision; all were hunched, short but bulky. Trolls. No men or mer. Walking onwards down the passage, he came across the first body. A troll lay sprawled in the centre of the passage, numerous wounds dotting its torso, its head lying several feet from the body. Another denizen of the mine was further up, with most of its brains decorating the support beam it was lying against.

The passage opened to admit Gorgoth to a larger room, with several long-disused shafts descending far into the earth. Several trolls lay dead, along with three of their assumed killers; an Altmer and two Imperials. He recognised one from the Chorrol branch; Ashtus Chenius, a fair swordsman but more noted for his abilities in Restoration. Their wounds – crushed ribcages, smashed skulls – indicated that they'd been killed by trolls. Nothing out of the ordinary so far. It was possible that the squad might had simply been overwhelmed by the creatures, but Oreyn wouldn't have sent anything under-strength with the Guildmaster's son.

Moving on, the Orc started down the nearest passage deeper into the mine. He stayed alert for any danger – as always – but parts of his conscious mind descended into deep thought. On the ride down, he'd mulled over the question of how he'd come to Cyrodiil. Had it been fated? Was it his destiny? Whatever the means, Gorgoth had welcomed the change. Years of rotting in Orsinium, a mere mercenary by trade, had been starting to get to him. He'd had no cause to fight for, no direction in his life. Never in his imagination had he thought he might find a worthy cause outside Orsinium, much less get involved with saving the entirety of Tamriel.

Maybe fate or even the Nine had taken him to Cyrodiil. Uriel had seemed to believe that the Divines had something to do with it. Maybe the Emperor was right, but a devotee of Malacath – a murderer and a rapist - seemed like an odd choice to be the champion of the Nine. Whatever the reasons behind it, the warrior-shaman wasn't about to question his destiny. He would just get on with it as he always had done. And right now, getting on with it involved searching a mine for signs of what had become of a group of his fellow mercenaries.

He felt a slight bond with these fellow Guildsmen of his. The Fighters Guild was flourishing in Orsinium – helped in part by the small stretch land he had gifted to it – but as it was still small and new, he hadn't taken much notice of it. But now, he felt more solidarity with his Guildsmen than he ever had with most fellow mercenaries. They were more close-knit, a formation with at least some honour. Worthy of his respect, at least, even if the regional Guildmaster was incompetent. But Oreyn was holding things together, and the Guild as a whole was worth fighting for. Pride was one of the few things Gorgoth allowed himself to feel, and even that was limited, but he would willingly go to great lengths to make the Guild something he could be proud of.

Pride. He'd never felt much of it in the past; there'd been precious little in his life to feel proud of. Casting off the shackles of his father's dominance might have been one of them, but he had accomplished little else. His dealings with the Dark Brotherhood had been strictly necessary, and his battles had been for the most part simple affairs that other Orcs could have won. While his efforts in turning himself into a living weapon had succeeded, they would be worthless until he accomplished something truly significant.

Dust cascading from a support beam as he passed focused his entire attention back on the mine for a moment; apart from a few more bodies of trolls, there had been no other indication of past events. Certainly nothing to indicate that this was anything but a routine result from a routine mission. Keeping most of his mind alert, the Orc let his thoughts return to deeper matters.

They settled on Mazoga, who'd been plaguing his thoughts ever since he'd seen her again. She hadn't changed much, but she did seem... harder now. More focused. The death of Ra'vindra had clearly affected her, as had his actions when she'd last seen him before departing Orsinium. He regretted nothing, however. Even if he did love her – he was still unsure what his exact feelings for her were - he'd never allow himself to feel it. Love was one of the biggest weaknesses in existence, and Gorgoth did not intend to fall victim to it. He had enough vulnerabilities that he could do nothing about; there would be no sense in adding to them. Romance was pointless in any case; comradeship was more than enough for him, and even that was by no means essential. Mazoga would have to make do, because he would never create a gap in his armour. Not for anyone.

Entering a large room brought his full focus back onto the matters at hand. Two trolls had been killed near the entrance, but three other corpses caught his eye. Two - an Imperial and a Redguard – were Guildsmen for sure, but the Breton lying near them was a Blackwood Company man by his armour. All three had been killed by blades, and Gorgoth had yet to meet a troll who could grip a sword, let alone wield one. It was obvious what had happened; the Guild had been fulfilling the contract when the Company arrived and killed them all.

The Orc crushed the rage that briefly threatened to bubble to the surface and folded his arms to think the situation over dispassionately. Viranus was almost certainly dead, killed by the denizens of the mine or, more likely, the Blackwood Company. If the Guildmaster could see through her grief, she would share his immediate view that there could only be war. An unprovoked attack, when combined with hostilities over the past few months, went far beyond rivalry. It was murder without cause. At the very least, Gorgoth was already starting to feel the desire to see his comrades avenged. But first he needed proof. He had yet to see Viranus's body, and with only his word to back up his claims he might well be brushed aside. Kicking aside the corpse of the Company man, he moved further into the mine.

Troll blood was staining the warrior-shaman's dai-katana by the time he came across more bodies; neither the Guild nor the Company had dealt fully with the infestation, though most of the population had undoubtedly been killed. Three more Guildsmen lay mingled with the corpses of two Company men, and a blood trail had been scraped along the floor of the cavern. Kneeling to study it, the Orc observed that the scrapes along the rock had probably been made by plate armour being dragged over the ground; few of the Guildsmen he'd seen were wearing anything like it.

Following the trail, Gorgoth eventually came to stand beside the body of Viranus Donton. The wound that had killed the young swordsman was obvious; blood had stained most of his armour red around the stomach, and more crimson fluid had been choked up as he approached death. In his gauntlet was clutched not his sword – which lay a few feet away, most of its length stained red - but a book. Sitting down on a nearby rock, the Warder plucked it out of his fellow Guildsman's hands and flicked through the pages to the last few entries. His hatred of the Blackwood Company, suppressed yet still present, solidified.

Standing, he looked down at the dead Imperial. He'd had potential; he had known how to follow orders, and he was at least decent with a blade. Above that, he was a good, honourable man, and would have been a credit to the guild had circumstances altered the passage of his life. Gorgoth knelt and slowly closed his eyes. "He may have been defeated, but he died well," he intoned, speaking in Orcish. "Watch over his soul, Malacath." He straightened and saluted his dead comrade before leaving with the journal tucked securely into his belt pouch. It was time for action.

* * *

It took an enormous effort of self-restraint for Modryn Oreyn not to snap and either throw something against the wall of his office, kick something, or attack the Guildsman who'd just brought him bad news. The latter option would be particularly bad in this case as the Guildsman in question was a seven-foot bulky Orc who likely weighed twice as much as the Dunmer. Also taking into consideration that it was of the utmost importance that the Guildmaster upstairs did not hear his cursing, Modryn simply took out his rage on his pitiful-looking desk, pounding it repeatedly until the wood splintered and blood started to leak from his knuckles.

"Why the _fuck_ did this happen?" he grated, glaring down at the splinters now perforating his grey skin. "They're already taking all the jobs in and near Leyawiin and making a ludicrous profit. Why slaughter the competition?" The Dark Elf pounded the table one last time before marching around and stopping inches from Gorgoth, made even angrier by the fact that he had to bend his neck backwards considerably just to meet the Warder's gaze. "They were good men," he growled, his voice growing dangerously quiet. "They deserved better."

"The Blackwood Company needs to answer for its crimes," replied the warrior-shaman, returning his superior's gaze evenly. "It must pay. We need to discuss a plan of action with the Guildmaster."

Modryn snorted. It was too easy to forget that the Orc was a newcomer to the Guild, and thus mostly ignorant of Vilena Donton's reduced ability. He turned away, waving a dismissive hand that belied the immense worry churning in his gut. Ever since hearing of Viranus's death, the Dunmer had known that he would answer for it; he alone had been responsible for sending the Guildmaster's son on the mission. He sighed, leaning heavily on his table, facing away from Gorgoth and staring at the bloody journal he'd brought with him. "Vilena is past it," he grunted. Harsh words, but they had long been true. Ever since the death of Vitellus. Even after the intervening months, he felt a pang of loss. Vitellus had been a good man, and a good fighter. A worthy successor to his mother, even, and a good friend. "She will not recognise the true danger, being blinded by her grief. She'll lash out at those she holds responsible. And that means that you and me are going to be hung out to fucking dry." His fist pounded the table again.

"She will punish the two people immediately able to make the true guilty party pay for its actions?"

Nodding, Modryn turned back to Gorgoth. He was starting to like the Orsimer. Blunt, to the point, and brutally effective. Much like himself. It would be a shame to see such a talent go to waste. "I'll be the one informing her," he told the Warder. "That way, I'll absorb most of the heat. If you go lay low for a while, chase up a few contracts, whatever... you'll survive. I doubt I will whatever the case." He'd been Champion for decades now – Vilena was his third Guildmaster – and he knew he wouldn't come to terms with the inevitable loss of his position for a while yet. He loved the Guild, yet he would have no place in it now. Forcing personal feelings aside, the Dark Elf poked his companion's cuirass. "You have to survive. I need effective people in this guild. Leave."

"No."

"_What_?" Modryn glared incredulously up at his subordinate, unfazed by the Orc's level gaze. On the few occasions that he'd been disobeyed, it had been by a malingerer who he'd verbally flogged to within an inch of their lives. This was different. "When I give you an order, _Warder,_ I expect it to be obeyed, especially when it's for your own fucking good!"

"This is my fault as well as yours. Had I been faster, this would not have happened. We will tell her _together_. Hopefully then we can salvage something from this." Gorgoth's voice was completely flat, his face expressionless. Modryn got the sense that he wouldn't be budged an inch. He was one of those people. Nevertheless, it was in the Dunmer's nature to argue.

"That's ludicrous and you know it," he spat, walking over to his armour stand and tapping his ebony breastplate. The fine suit was a stark contrast to the warrior-shaman's battered ruin. "You couldn't have got there any faster, unless you learnt how to teleport." He snorted; the Orc probably _did_ know how to teleport, but though Modryn's knowledge of magicka was shaky, he knew that teleportation without a Mark was prohibitively costly. "You know you got there as fast as you could. You merely brought the bad news to me. Now _I'll_ bring the bad news to Vilena." The Dark Elf turned back to the Warder. "Get out of here, and you'll probably retain Guild membership."

"I will not run." Gorgoth folded his arms, his eyes firmly fixed on Modryn's. For the first time since meeting that gaze, the Champion felt a slight sense of unease. Dismissing it, he sighed and picked up Viranus's journal. The dread he was feeling started to increase. He ignored it; focus and tact was what he needed now. They would be impossible to achieve while consumed with worry, though tact at the best of times was quite foreign to him.

"Suit yourself," growled the Dark Elf. He turned to point the book at his companion. "When we get in there, make your account as pro-Guild and anti-Company as you can. While we can't avert her wrath, maybe we can help her focus on what's really important here." He didn't have much hope of that; he'd seen Vilena when she'd been informed of the death of Vitellus, and it hadn't been pretty. Rolling his shoulders, the Dunmer pushed his door open and walked out, followed by the Orc.

He walked straight into Vilena, managing to stop himself only inches from her face. Gorgoth almost walked into the back of him. Instantly, Modryn's mind started racing. She'd been standing just outside his office; how much has she heard? He wasn't to know that the warrior-shaman behind him had cast a Silence spell around the room that had prevented any sound leaving it. Fortunately, the expression in Vilena's aged, weather-beaten face was one of annoyance, not one of anger or grief.

"My son has been missing for over a week now, Champion," she grated, her brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Are you _sure_ you don't know anything about that?" Tall for a woman, she could easily look Modryn in the eyes, and at the worst of times her gaze could unnerve him slightly.

"We... should discuss this in the privacy of your office, Guildmaster," muttered her subordinate, knowing that ears downstairs would be straining in their direction right now. The Imperial pursed her lips and nodded, turning and leading the way upstairs, the skirt of her dull green dress rustling before the sound was drowned out by Gorgoth's considerable weight making the stairs creak and groan. She jerked the door to her office opened awaited for them to enter before slamming it shut again, turning to face them with her hands on her hips, the impatient gesture aided by her stocky build.

"Well? What's going on?" she demanded, her stare switching between the two of them.

Modryn sighed and squared his shoulders, adopting a determined expression. "Viranus has been out on a contract given to him by me," he told her, holding up a hand to cut off her furious retort. "Let me finish, Guildmaster. It was a relatively simple assignment; he was leading a sizeable squad to clear the Forsaken Mine of trolls. When I didn't hear back for a while, I sent Gorgoth to investigate."

Vilena turned to Gorgoth as he stepped forward, dropping her eyes to his throat after a few seconds. Modryn wasn't surprised; the Orc's cold eyes were among the most chilling and menacing he'd ever seen. "I entered the mine long after the action," he started. "Apparently, our Guildsmen were fighting the trolls well, but then the Blackwood Company appeared in a frenzy, attacking everything that moved. I learnt this partly from my own deduction, and partly from Viranus's journal." He held out the mentioned book, placing it on Vilena's desk when she didn't take it. "He's dead," the Warder told her to hammer the point home.

Vilena looked at him without expression for a few moments, her eyes flickering to the bloodied pages briefly. "Dead?" she asked, her voice completely flat. Modryn sighed. He'd heard that tone only once before. He nodded.

"He's dead, yes. But it was the Blackwood Company who murdered him. We need to-"

"It was _you_ who sent him there, Oreyn! He wasn't ready for that kind of thing! You know that!" The Guildmaster's face was rapidly turning an unsightly shade of puce, in tandem with her rising voice. "He should have been safe at home, on easy contracts, instead of sneaking around behind my back because of _you_!" Her volume lowered dangerously as she thrust a finger into Modryn's chest. The frustration, anger, and hint of guilt felt by the Dunmer meant that he glared back in response. "You have taken my son from me." Her last sentence was uttered in a whisper filled with loathing.

"Stop getting over-fixated!" growled Modryn, unwilling to be pushed around by this deluded old woman any more. "Yes, I sent him out on the contract, but he'd have survived and done well if the Blackwood Company hadn't murdered him!"

"He was there because of you!" shouted Vilena, stepping forward. He refused to step back, so the result was that their furious faces were mere inches apart. Searching that face, Modryn could see that there was no way through that delusion. Her grief was finally sending her around the bend.

"At least I was doing something to help him, instead of wrapping him in cotton wool and treating him like a fucking child," snarled the Dunmer, folding his arms. No point in diplomacy now. "Who can become a true man when treated like that, eh? At least he died well. Like his brother."

Clenching her fists, the Imperial looked like she was about to attack her subordinate, but collected herself. "Get out of my sight," she hissed. "You are not fit to lick the boots of the lowest Guildsman. Show your face here again and you will be killed." Turning away from the Dunmer, she thrust a finger in Gorgoth's direction. "And as for _you_-"

The Orc pre-empted her by picking her up by her throat and slamming her into the wall of her own office, shocking even Modryn, who instinctively stepped in to help Vilena before remembering the situation. "As for me, I have not lost sight of the true direction of this Guild, unlike its Guildmaster," growled the warrior-shaman, his freezing gaze boring into the Imperial's eyes. "You are deluded. You refuse to pursue the people who killed your son. You are _not_ fit to run this Guild." He slowly set her back on her feet. Modryn grunted. He was right.

Rubbing her throat, Vilena glared at the Warder's chest. "And what do _you_ know about running a guild?" she rasped. "You, in the Guild for a matter of weeks, dares to question my long service? I will be getting the proper authorities involved to see if what you say is true, but until then, I will stick with _what I know_." Those last words were directed at Modryn along with a snarl.

"Then you are a fool," growled Gorgoth. "Action needs to be taken now. We cannot let the Company get away-"

"Get out of my office and out of my Guild. Both of you." Sighing, Modryn nodded to Gorgoth as he moved slowly towards the door, a sinking feeling in his stomach. The Orc didn't move. "_Get out_!" screamed Vilena, shoving him in the chest with all the strength she could muster. The warrior-shaman swayed an inch or two before turning and marching out, followed quickly by Modryn. As he slammed the door behind him, there was a thud as something heavy was thrown at it. The Guildmaster's sobbing started to resonate around her otherwise silent Guildhall.

As the two ex-Guildsmen moved down the stairs towards the exit, they were greeted by silent stares from what seemed to be half the population of the Chorrol Guild. No one could have failed to hear that. Some eyes were accusing, some sympathetic, some angry. It was not until they reached the door that Lum gro-Baroth stepped forward. "I'm with you, sir," he muttered, bowing his head towards Modryn. "Always." There was a murmur of assent through the assembled ranks. Grunting, Modryn turned to face them.

He was no longer one of them. The reality hit him, forcing him to grimace. For several decades he'd been a living, breathing part of this guild, effectively running it for the past few years. He genuinely loved it; it was his life. His dedication had always been noted by Vilena in the past, and now she did this to him. The despair rising within him was tempered by the touching gesture of his old comrades; even when he was cast down, they stood by him. Rank could be eroded; respect was more enduring. "I..." Used to his gruffness for so long, it was unusual for the Guildsmen to see their old Champion hesitate, to be at a loss for words. He set his mouth in a grim line, his features determined. "I'll be back," he grated, turning on his heel and marching out of the Guildhall into the cold night air. Gorgoth nodded to the assembled congregation and followed him.

"So what do we do now?" asked the Orc as he caught up with Modryn, who was walking quickly back to his house. He seemed unaffected by his expulsion, but, then, the Dark Elf doubted there was anyone in the world who could tell what the warrior-shaman was thinking. His face remained stoic and emotionless.

"Firstly, I'm expecting a few of them to rescue my armour before Vilena decides to sell it to fill the Guild's coffers," spat the ex-Champion. That ebony would be worth a fortune, for sure. It had been his for countless years now. "And secondly... well, I still know a few people. I'm not letting the Company rest, Gorgoth." He stopped and turned to the Orc. "I'll see what I can dig up. I'll send for you when I've got something. For now, there's not much you can do; I doubt the other Guildhalls will turn you away – their heads aren't up their arses for the most part - but it's best to be on the safe side."

"I have other dedications, but if you need me, I will do my utmost to help you," responded the warrior-shaman. "I've come to value the Guild; it might pain me to see it torn apart by incompetence and the honourless dogs of the Company. If you send a message to Cloud Ruler Temple, I will get it eventually."

"Good to know I can trust someone, at least." Modryn held out his hand. Gorgoth shook it firmly. "I'll be in touch. Now go hurt something." The Orc nodded and saluted before turning on his heel and walking down towards the Grey Mare. Continuing on towards his house, the ex-Champion ignored any greetings and sped up as his face grew even more grim. Barging into his house, he slammed the door behind him and bolted it shut.

Looking around, he checked that the simple house was empty except for him before sinking down to sit on his bed, looking down at his hands. No longer was he Champion Oreyn of the Fighters Guild; now he was plain Modryn Oreyn, a citizen of Chorrol. Burying his head in his hands, he groaned, sinking briefly into the misery that he'd never let himself show in public. The Blackwood Company would pay for this even if he died trying. In an effort to cheer himself, Modryn started to visualise the graphic and brutal torture of some of their members. Yes; they would pay, for sure.

* * *

As he walked away from Modryn, Gorgoth kept his anger firmly under control. He had known that confronting Vilena would mean his dismissal from the guild that he had grown to respect, but he would have done exactly the same thing a thousand times over. The Guildmaster had been bringing shame and dishonour to the Guild, and for that, he and Oreyn had been dismissed; a deliberate slur on their honour. Life had never been fair to to the Orc, but he'd had a habit of landing on both feet. At least he and the ex-Champion could operate freely. The Blackwood Company would get their comeuppance soon enough.

He threw open the door to the Grey Mare and strode in, sitting down carefully at a table. It was too late to begin travelling, and his new horse needed the rest. He'd named her Baluk, 'need' in the Orcish language, as it had been need that drove him to damage the Black Horse Courier's delivery service by stealing one of their horses. She'd been driven hard since he came into possession, and to make sure she didn't come to loath him, he'd be taking it easy on her for a while now if the situation allowed for it. The North Country Stables had already received a premium payment to ensure she got the best quality services.

His large beer arrived and he downed half of it in a few gulps, barely thinking about it. His mind was still mulling over the problem of the Blackwood company when he noticed a figure in the shadows watching him. A Khajiit. A Suthay-raht with amber eyes and fur that was deep gold apart from a black streak over his right eye. Just like the last time the warrior-shaman had seen him, the cat stirred something deep within his memory. Their eyes met, amber on amber. The cat's expression did not change, nor did he move a muscle. It was as though he was almost daring the Orc to walk over and confront him.

Gorgoth searched harder for that memory, but it remained frustratingly out of reach, and fled entirely as a Breton sat down at his table. She was wearing a nondescript dull green tunic, and her shoulder-length brown hair was hanging loose around her shoulders, making her pale face look prettier than it ever had been when she'd been in full armour. However, that face itself was unchanged, and the look of intense dislike it wore was also familiar. The Akaviri katana on her back served as a final reminder. "I resent being sent to give _you_ a message," grated Callia.

"But you are a good enough soldier to carry out the order nonetheless," remarked her fellow Blade, studying her. It was interesting to note that, out of her armour, the small, slim Breton was actually fairly attractive by Breton standards, which Gorgoth had some scattered understanding of. Her build was not one of a warrior, but she undoubtedly had both determination and motivation, which had rewarded her with skill in abundance.

The Knight Sister's teeth could almost be heard grinding together. "The Emperor has learnt the third item needed for the ritual. You are to return to Cloud Ruler Temple immediately." Message delivered, Callia stood up to leave so quickly that she rocked the table.

"Callia, wait." The Breton paused, her body rigid as Gorgoth stood up. Just before she had turned to leave, the Khajiit across the room had walked out of the door into the street. Given his suspicions, the warrior-shaman wasn't about to take any chances. "If we'll be travelling at night, then we should leave together. There is strength in numbers."

She turned to give him a look of scorn. "And what makes you think that _I_ have any interest in travelling with _you_?"

"The fact that we are Knight Brother and Sister. Come on." He took a hold of her elbow and steered her out of the pub, ignoring her vehement protests. Short of drawing her katana, there was nothing she could do to escape the Orc's vice grip, but fortunately for her, he released her just inside the gate before the guards started to suspect that he was abducting her. "Keep walking. Act normally. We'll go to the stables and get our horses," he muttered, directing a warning glare in her direction that told her everything she needed to know.

Without turning his head as they walked towards the stables, Gorgoth cast a discreet life detection spell that allowed him to see life forms even outside his radius of vision. Prolonged usage would always cause agonising headaches, but for short-term use it was highly useful. Something slunk out of the gates after them before they closed, following them at a distance. It was impossible to tell the race from the life form itself, but that smooth movement reinforced the Orc's suspicions. He gently tapped Callia's shoulder. "Remain watchful and alert," he told her, his voice a low rumble only discernible at very short distances.

She was frowning up at him, opening her mouth, when the figure behind them moved suddenly. The warrior-shaman wasted no time in diving to the ground, dragging the shocked Breton down with him as a throwing axe whistled over their heads. Spinning, Gorgoth froze the air in a radius of twenty metres around the Khajiit, but he was already sprinting towards them. As the Orc rose to his feet, the cat sprang onto the stable's lower roof, using it as a springboard to launch himself at his target with incredible speed. The warrior-shaman's fist rose to connect solidly with his attacker's ribcage, sending him spinning through the air and crumpling to the ground a short distance away. By the time Callia had her katana out, he had sprung to his feet and darted off into the shadows of the night, swallowed within seconds.

The Knight Sister moved to follow him, but her comrade stopped her with a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head. Her furious glance quickly turned to one of shock as she saw the damage done by that one quick attack; the left side of Gorgoth's face had been torn to shreds, the claws of the Khajiit cutting through bone and right into his mouth. He pressed a hand to the afflicted area, healing it before spitting out a mouthful of blood. "If you follow him, he will kill you," he told her. "With the shadows of the night and my weak armour on his side, he would probably kill me as well."

Callia stared up at him, tracing one finger through the thick crimson fluid still splattered on his face over the healed wounds before wiping her hand distastefully on her trousers. "Who is he?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

The Orc grunted. "He is Do'Kazirr," he muttered. "I should have recognised him when I first saw him. One of the most dangerous warriors I have ever faced." His companion folded her arms, her gaze demanding more. "I know little about him," admitted the Knight Brother. "But I do know that he is Azani Blackheart's right-hand man. A powerful position to be in."

Callia grimaced. "Blackheart?" she spat. "I've heard of him. A bandit warlord?"

Gorgoth nodded, waving his hands towards the stables and leading the way over, grabbing a leaf from a nearby plant to rub the blood off his face and teeth. "Yes. He has been operating for a long time now. I've crossed swords with him before. I barely survived." For a moment he was tempted to show the Breton the scar that Sinweaver had left, but decided against it. She fell silent as they entered the building and walked over to an Anvil white; a small example of the breed, but with definite stamina and speed in abundance. The Orc nodded in appreciation before gently waking Baluk, stroking her nose and muttering words in Orcish. She probably didn't understand, but he was best talking to horses in his own language. "Do you have your armour with you?" he asked his fellow Blade.

She shook her head. "Messengers rarely do for such simple assignments. Weighs us down."

The warrior-shaman nodded; that was logical. "It would have meant you would be at least safer on the journey. As it is, we'll travel under the protection of shield spells. I doubt Do'Kazirr was alone, and he is known to be unpredictable when given freedom of operation. We might be safe, or we might come under relentless attack."

"Any more skeletons in your closet?" asked Callia dryly as she led her mare out of the stable.

"None that you need to know about," responded Gorgoth as he heaved himself up into Baluk's saddle. She eyed him reproachfully; his heavy weight was unwelcome after her promising night of rest had been cut cruelly short. The Orc flicked a stray hair of her mane back into place and stared down the road, making sure a Night Eye spell and a life detection spell were both active. "There is not a minute to be lost," he announced, heeling his horse forward in the direction of Bruma.

* * *

It was cold in the north, and it had been for some time. Snow was now a constant companion at Cloud Ruler Temple. Every Blade in the fortress had served there for at least two years now, so everyone was by now used to the blanket that covered the Temple every winter. Several of the non-Blades currently residing there, however, would _never_ get used to the cold.

"You _know_ I don't appreciate being dragged out of bed this early, Ilend," growled Aerin as she stood on the temple walls, her arms wrapped around her shivering body despite her thick cloak.

Her companion snorted, his breath billowing out in front of him before dissipating. "It's closer to noon than it is to dawn," he remarked, waving a hand towards the valley below them, where the morning mist had yet to dissipate. He too was wearing a cloak, but he had the hood thrown back, letting the light breeze catch his black locks and redden his cheeks. "Besides, it's best to make the most of such a view than laze around sleeping." His gesture took in the sky; it was a perfect blue, not a cloud in sight. White Gold Tower and parts of the Imperial City were clearly visible.

The Wood Elf glanced at the distant symbol of Imperial power for a few moments before taking a step back. "All right. View seen and appreciated. Can I go back to bed now?"

Ilend laughed and grabbed her arm, pulling her back forward. "And leave me out here all alone?" He glanced sideways at the Bosmer, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Come on, let the wind play on your skin a bit. It'll feel good." His gauntleted hand pulled down the hood of her cloak, revealing her pale face in its entirety, with strands of her auburn hair fluttering over it. Her blue eyes were as icy as the wind as she glared at him. The folding of her arms and her pout diluted the intimidation somewhat.

"Think about it; out here you've got me and whoever chances to come along. Back in that warm, snug barracks, you've got Gnaeus and Lurog, each trying to out-snore the other." Aerin shuddered at the thought and moved slightly closer to him, attempting to leech some of his body warmth as she stared down at the rugged terrain surrounding the temple. A companionable silence rose between them as the sun started to burn away the mist down in the valley. Behind them, the fort was still quiet, mostly asleep. The ever-present guard were shivering at their posts, occasionally beating their hands together or looking wistfully at the braziers.

"So when do ya reckon Gorgoth will get here?" asked Aerin. It had been four days since Martin and Selene had deciphered enough of the Xarxes to determine the next reagent. "By my reckoning, he's already late; ya know how hard he pushes."

"Could be any number of reasons. You can't predict him, not really." Ilend rolled his shoulders, shifting his feet around to stop them getting too cold. He'd grown accustomed to the chill that penetrated his layers of clothing and armour; the night watch in winter in Kvatch had been comparable at times. "I take it you're ready to leave as soon as he appears?"

The archer nodded "Within minutes," she confirmed. "Got everything bundled and ready ta go. Hope I've got enough potions this time..." She shuddered, recalling the last time she'd run out of healing potions. Broken legs were painful.

Ilend shrugged. "If you run out, you can always pinch a few of mine. Or get Gorgoth or Selene to heal you." He smirked briefly. "But I'm pretty sure you'll be fine. You'll never be the best swordsmer in Cyrodiil, but you've got enough skill now to kill the average bandit easily enough." Their frequent training sessions had made certain of that.

Aerin's response was interrupted by Selene's arrival on Ilend's other side. The half-elf was also heavily cloaked, but her warming spell meant she had the hood thrown back and her golden hair was streaming out behind her, often plucked by the wind. Translation had barely eased despite the progress; Martin was determined to get the Xarxes fully understood as quickly as possible. Fortunately for his co-translator, however, he had agreed that she needed a break to prepare herself fully for the coming expedition, and so she was looking fresher than she had been for a while. "How long do you think he'll be?" she asked, unwittingly echoing Aerin; she, like the others, were eager to get away while they could. Both Martin and Jauffre were always insistent that there was never minute to be lost, and now they had been waiting for days.

"A few minutes, most likely, if that's him," replied the Imperial, pointing down into the valley at a mounted figure that had just emerged from the mist. "Aerin, you have better eyes than me. What can you make out?"

The Bosmer frowned and leaned forward, thrusting her head over the edge of the wall. "Why isn't Callia with him...?" she asked herself, her brow furrowing. The figure and its mount were now distinct from each other; the black horse was approaching the gates at a fast pace. Faster than would normally be expected.

Selene, who had also leaned forward, let out a gasp before stepping backwards and turning. "Open the gates!" she barked to the Blades on duty, who hesitated only for a second before rushing to obey. The battlemage was already rushing along the battlements, heading for the stairs leading down to the gateway with Ilend and Aerin – both clueless as to the urgency – in close pursuit. Creaking and groaning, the gates were hauled open by the machinery concealed in the walls. The half-elf stopped halfway down the stairs as the horse trotted into view, finally slowing down.

"What..." Aerin's unspoken question died in her throat as the horse wearily slowed to a halt, the large arrow in her left shoulder clearly causing her much pain. A thud resonated off the walls as Gorgoth slid out of the saddle. Five arrows perforated him; three in his back, one in his right shoulder and the last in his left hip. His crimson-stained armour appeared to have done its duty, however, as he was able to turn easily to gently pluck Callia out of the saddle, where she had been sitting in front of him. The unconscious Breton's torso was covered in the blood that had leaked from the wound just beneath her left breast; dangerously close to the heart. Half of the arrow had been cut away, but the deadly point was still buried deep within her.

"We need light, a table, and someone skilled at extracting arrows." The Orc's voice booming across the courtyard seemed to spur everyone into action; several Blades dashed up and took Callia from him, while others rushed off to find anyone who might be of assistance. Ilend walked up and attempted to view the extent of the damage caused by the arrows in his plate armour, but the warrior-shaman brushed him off and followed the Blades carrying his wounded comrade into the Great Hall, where they laid her out on a table that had been swiftly cleared for the purpose. News spread quickly and soon several off-duty Blades were attempting to get closer to their Knight Sister until Selene told them in no uncertain terms to keep their distance before their clumsiness finished her off.

"What happened?" asked Lurog as he strode over to his fellow Orc. "This is not the work of some random bandits." Ilend nodded in agreement; Masser and Secunda would turn bright pink before Gorgoth allowed a disparate band of highwaymen to wound him so badly.

"An ambush in the mist," rumbled Gorgoth. Now that he was in good light, they could see that his face was several shades paler than usual, and that blood was still trickling down his leg and dripping to the stone floor. "I killed them all, but at cost. If Do'Kazirr had been there we would both be dead." The Imperial raised an eyebrow in curiosity; unlike Lurog, who had nodded in understanding, he had never heard the name before. The warrior-shaman was not in a divulging mood, however. "I will explain in full later." He stepped up to Callia's unmoving body. Her normally pale face was now as white as snow, making the few spots of blood over it seem a brilliant red. "She must be healed immediately."

"So do you," Selene told him, leaning on the other side of the table and glaring down at the arrow as she shrugged off her cloak. "How dangerous is the arrowhead?"

"I will survive. She might not; the head bent on impact. Pulling it out crudely would slash open her heart. Even if we healed her in seconds she would have lost too much blood." The slight tightening of Gorgoth's eyes might have had several causes; fatigue, or the pain of having five arrows embedded in his flesh. However, much to Ilend's surprise, he realised that the Hero of Kvatch was actually displaying emotion. What emotion it was he could not tell – it could be concern, frustration, anger – but it was clear that his predicament was loosening his normally impeccable hold on his emotions. "How good are you at arrow extraction?"

The half-elf pursed her lips. "I know the theory, but... I've never done it bef-"

"Then you are of no use. As am I; my hands are too large and clumsy for such an operation. We need-"

"Move aside." Martin thrust his way through the throng of Blades and stopped next to Selene, gazing at Callia's wound. "I have extracted some arrows in my time, but... you say it is complex?"

Gorgoth nodded. "I would recommend opening the wound so we can see the full arrowhead. We should then take the arrow apart magically and attempt to remove the deepest part of the head. I will not risk a full disintegration when it might be pressing against her heart." A small, delicate dagger appeared in his hand and he passed it over to Martin. "I trust you have a steady hand?"

The heir looked up at Gorgoth as he took the weapon. "I will have to." His steely gaze reinforced the resolve of his words. Ilend instantly knew that Callia was in good hands.

"Good." A flash of red at the warrior-shaman's fingertips and the front of the Breton's shirt disintegrated, leaving no residue or proof that it had ever existed. "Selene, keep the wound clean." The half-elf took a cloth from one of the Blades and carefully wiped clean the area around the wound.

"It's fortunate that the arrow didn't take in any cloth with it," she observed, stepping back as Martin leaned forward. She glared around at those standing too close; Ilend found himself obliged to step back after meeting her gaze; those green eyes, usually soft, were now as hard as iron. He looked down to find Aerin's hand grasping at his; he grabbed it and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Don't worry," he told her in a low tone, for fear of disturbing the delicate operation and incurring Selene's wrath. "Martin's good at this kind of thing. He treated a few of us guardsmen in the past in situations like these, when magic wouldn't answer." From the concern in Aerin's eyes, she wasn't entirely convinced. Glancing back at the Breton, he saw why: the future Emperor of Tamriel had laid open Callia's flesh around the wound, exposing both her ribcage and the arrowhead. He had removed part of her bra as well, but only the most perverted could take pleasure in such a sight at that moment.

"I can see where we can make a split," Gorgoth was saying as he examined the position of the arrowhead. From his position, he could actually catch a glimpse of the Breton's heart where the arrow went deepest; the beating was weak and irregular. "Selene, take hold of the shaft." As the battlemage did so, the Orc sent a trickle of very refined Destruction magicka into the arrowhead. A thin line of red, barely perceptible, cut it in half. The half-elf carefully removed the arrow and handed it to a nearby Blade. Martin now had his face mere inches from the wound, some of his hair brushing against the skin of his patient.

"We have to rotate that fragment," he observed. "If we can turn it sufficiently, we can pull it out without too much danger to the heart." Gorgoth nodded his assent; the heir was in a better position than him for the purposes of visibility. "It has to be quick, though; she won't be able to survive much longer." Indeed, blood had been constantly pumping from the wound, directed around his fingers by Selene's telekinesis before splashing onto the floor to create a growing puddle.

Aware of sudden breathing by his ear where there had been none before, Ilend turned to find Jauffre stood next to him, glaring at the warrior-shaman's back. "What in Oblivion has that greenskin bastard got her into...?" he muttered, clearly talking to himself. Ilend forced his face away before letting his shock become evident; it was open knowledge that Jauffre disliked the Orc, but he'd expected a far greater level of professionalism from the man who led the Emperor's personal legion. Aerin was still watching the operation with wide eyes; he was of the opinion that she wouldn't be able to turn away even if she wanted to. The work was now completely hidden from view, being so deep in the Breton's body, but Martin appeared to be focusing intently, his hands glowing an odd off-white colour.

"It's ready to come out," he announced. "Stay ready..." He jerked his hand upwards and in a spurt of blood the arrow fragment flew out of the wound, landing on the floor some distance away. Gorgoth had already clamped both hands down over the wound, sending powerful blue healing magic through Callia's body. "Her heart beat at the wrong time," grunted Martin, clearly displeased with himself. "I think I nicked it..." Selene was at the Breton's head, her fingers at her neck. The warrior-shaman removed his hands to reveal a jagged but small scar, mostly hidden under a smearing of crimson fluid.

"She's still alive," reported Selene. "But she's weak. She still might not make it..." despite her words, there was an incredible release of tension throughout the Great Hall, which was now packed with most of the Blades not on duty. Aerin sagged with relief and leaned against Ilend, but he barely noticed. He was too busy watching Gorgoth, who had for some time been leaning heavily on the table. Such was the Orc's aura of invincibility that it was a shock for the Imperial to realise that he was barely able to stand; the puddle of blood around his feet had gone unnoticed next to the larger pool under the table.

Jauffre had probably noticed it, but was definitely choosing to ignore it as he marched up to his subordinate, anger written into his features. "Hers was a routine mission, Knight Brother. To find you and get you back here. What in Oblivion went wrong?" His accusatory stare and his folded arms were so obvious that he might well have shouted that he suspected the Orc of foul play. Martin looked up and frowned at the Grandmaster as several Blades under Selene's direction gently picked up Callia to take her to a bed for recovery.

Gorgoth turned slowly and stood straight, almost at attention in spite of his wounds, meeting his superior's gaze. "We had left Bruma early this morning," he reported, his voice laced with weariness. Ilend prepared himself to move in and catch the Orc should he collapse, unlikely as that seemed. "We were ambushed in the mist by a well-prepared force. They only got one volley off before I shielded us more effectively and fireballed the lot of them, but they killed Callia's horse and wounded the rest of us. There were ten of them." He took a step forward. "Blackheart's men. I warned you about his army, Grandmaster, and of his threat. Clearly, you didn't listen."

"I knew he had no interest in the Blades!" snarled Jauffre. "His target was _you_, not us. He is _your_ problem, not mine."

"With all due respect, Grandmaster, he's our problem now," cut in Renault, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the departing Callia. Beside her, Steffan was nodding in agreement. "We can't let something like that go unpunished, even if she was only effectively caught in the crossfire. Blackheart has badly wounded, maybe killed, one of our own; we don't take that lying down."

"The Blades are a tool of the Emperor, not something to descend into fighting not in his interest," growled Jauffre, glaring at her.

"Actually, Jauffre, it is in my interest," remarked Martin. All eyes turned to their heir, who was still standing next to the reddened table, his arms resolutely folded. "Two of my Blades have been attacked by this Blackheart character, whom you have strangely neglected to inform me about. The matter seems simple to my mind. We cannot portray ourselves as a punch bag, to be attacked without retribution."

The Breton's face was now a colourful shade of purple as he started to splutter. "But, sire, we will- we cannot afford to get distracted by this- by this provincial warlord who bears a grudge against this- one of our Blades! I-"

"I think that Blade of yours is going to fall on you if you don't let him get treatment soon enough," barked Ilend. Every eye in the hall darted towards him, but he was clearly right; despite his best efforts, Gorgoth was starting to sway slightly. Lurog immediately darted forward and wrapped an arm around his comrades shoulder's, making sure not to disturb any of the arrows in the warrior-shaman's back. Ilend promptly did the same on his other side; he was just tall enough to stop the action looking comedic.

"I agree," stated Martin. "He can answer your questions when he's recovered." He narrowed his eyes as Jauffre tried to protest. "_When he's recovered_, Grandmaster," he grated, forcing his words out with such insistence that the aged Breton would have been guilty of insubordination if he had pressed his point. The wounded Orc was already being helped over to his bedchamber in the Royal Wing, with Aerin and a recently-arrived Saliith following in their wake.

"My horse... she has to be taken care of," growled Gorgoth, his voice still strong and commanding.

"She's being attended to, brother," reassured Lurog as they entered the Royal Wing. "But her wound wasn't serious; yours are." That much was true: Aerin and Saliith were having to step around the trail of blood that the Knight Brother was leaving. As they reached Gorgoth's room, the Argonian quickly darted around and opened the door for them.

"Can you stay standing?" asked the Bosmer, hovering nervously as the Orc was helped to the centre of the room.

"Of course," he grunted. "I am no invalid." Ilend's fingers started working at the straps of his cuirass, but the warrior-shaman brushed his hands away. "This armour is fast approaching useless weight in any case," he explained as he disintegrated it, leaving him in his ragged, torn fur shirt and trousers. "None of the arrowheads are threatening anything, as far as I can tell. Rip them out."

Before Ilend could comment on this dangerous and foolish - if quick – operation, Lurog had taken a firm grip on one of the arrows and yanked it out of his comrade's back, taking a clump of flesh with it. Aerin squeezed her eyes shut and turned away, but in contrast, Gorgoth's only reaction to what must have been excruciating agony was a slight grimace. "Keep going," he commanded.

The Imperial watched as Saliith took another arrow and tore it out, attempting to remember how to cast a light spell. Eventually, a small globe of light appeared, and he floated it over to lie just above the Orc's back. "Check for fragments and pieces of cloth before healing," he advised, folding his arms. He'd been present at a few of these procedures in his time as a Kvatch guardsman, and while none of the extractions had been as crude as this, it always had been important to remove all foreign bodies from the wound to guard against infection.

The Argonian's thinner, longer fingers were more suited to this task than Lurog's green sausages, so the gruesome task of rummaging around in another man's body fell to him. No doubt he'd seen worse in the Arena; from what Ilend had seen in the Kvatch Arena, injuries such as these were commonplace in a gladiator's line of work. Now mostly redundant – even Gorgoth's broad back wouldn't allow three men to work behind him – he moved over to Aerin, who was beginning to look slightly sick. "You OK?" he asked.

She glanced at him, extending a slightly shaking finger to point at the gaping wounds. "That's what _I_ do to people," she whispered. "Never seen it... like this... before." She was right; Trueshot's enchantment ensured that it would punch through flesh and bone until the arrow reached its limit. The injuries left by such a hit would be at least as bad as these, or even worse. She winced again at the ripping sound made by another arrow as it was torn out.

Ilend patted her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting manner. "You didn't cause these ones," he assured her. "And you only shoot people who deserve it anyway, so..." the rest of his sentence was left unsaid as Saliith started to twist the arrow in Gorgoth's hip around, trying to dislodge it from the bone. Having dealt with all the arrows in his back, Lurog started working on the one in his shoulder. The warrior-shaman managed to cast a powerful healing spell, sealing up the holes in his back. Turning his back on the gruesome sight, the Imperial squeezed his companion's upper arm. "Best that you've seen it. At some point, everyone has to face up to what they inflict. Clearly, they never showed you your opponent's corpses in the Arena."

Aerin grunted and turned her face away as the lizard finally wrenched the arrow out of the hip, leaving damaged bone clearly visible. It was swiftly healed by the Orc, despite him now having to lean on the Grand Champion's shoulder to stay standing. "I'm not used to seeing him like this," whispered the Bosmer, echoing the Guildsman's thoughts.

"It was clearly a well-executed ambush. Anyone can-" Ilend was cut off by Gorgoth, who had just healed his last wound.

"Belief in your own invulnerability, Aerin, will only lead to your death." The Orc shook his head, almost staggering before he made his way over to a chair and throwing himself down into it. His clothing was now mostly rags, and through the tattered holes they could all see the drying blood covering his green skin. Those yellow eyes, however, were as sharp as ever. "I understand that we have an objective?"

It took a few seconds for Ilend to realise that he was talking about the message Callia would have given him. By the time he had opened his mouth, Saliith was already explaining the situation. "It turns out we need a Great Welkynd Stone. Some kind of Ayleid artefact. I've got no clue about that, personally." The Argonian paused to scratch his throat. "Anyhow, the only one left in Cyrodiil is apparently in Miscarcand. No idea where that is..."

"Just east of Kvatch, a few hour's ride from the Gold Road," cut in Aerin. "I've seen it before; me and my father camped near the ruins once."

Ilend nodded. "I've been there before; it was once a suspected location of bandits. In fact, no bandit with a decent sense of self-preservation would step inside _that_ place..." He himself had only seen the exterior, but the feeling of the ancient spirits that still inhabited the place watching him constantly still haunted him sometimes.

Gorgoth was tapping a canine. "That does not sound too complicated," he observed. "Anything else?"

"Yes, unfortunately." Lurog sighed, wiping his bloodied hands on a nearby chair before sitting down in it. "The old King of Miscarcand is believed to still exist, in the form of a lich. He won't be easy meat, for sure."

"We will challenge that when it comes. For now, are you all ready to leave?"

Ilend nodded. "Within minutes," he claimed. "But you'll need rest to be-" Gorgoth waved a dismissive hand.

"A few hours sleep and I will be well enough to ride. I'll recover my strength on the way. Make sure you bring all the potions you can carry." The warrior-shaman waved away their protests. "I have survived worse than being shot a few times. All I need now is some rest." He beckoned, and Lurog helped him up, supporting him to the door to his bedroom. "Remain prepared. I get the feeling that this will not be easy."

* * *

**A/N: You might have noticed that the plot is moving forward quicker now... anyhow, I won't be around from Friday night to Monday night (longer if I crash at Goodwood on Monday; if that happens, you can read about it on page 37 of the Daily Mail), so if you review your reply might be delayed. Don't worry, though; I'm still around. Don't forget to review.**


	37. The Dark Depths of Miscarcand

**A/N: Yes, I know, it's been over three weeks since my last update again... however, since 11/11/11, I've been slightly distracted. Still, Skyrim isn't distracting enough to relieve me of my duty to you loyal readers, so here's your chapter. As ever, thanks to anyone who reviewed. If you hadn't, lack of inspiration would have made this chapter a lot longer in coming...**

**Random Reader: Well, you knew Gorgoth was never going to lie down and let Modryn accept that fate for both of them... yes, he does love the Guild, sort of, in his own way. I don't envy the Blackwood Company... As for Cecia, I doubt he'll be needed. For one thing, a magically unaided fist is near-useless against daedric armour, and the Blades already have extensive training in hand-to-hand combat (which is logical). As for Gorgoth, he's got skill aplenty; he's almost as deadly with his fists as he is with a weapon in his hand. No, no new mods recently. I think you can guess why...**

**Simple Thought: Well, we'll find out eventually. Let's just say I don't think she'll ever come to like him. Yes, the FG questline hasn't got long left, but I find it might still offer up some surprises... I hope.**

**Underpaid Critic: Technically, there was no action scene, as it happened 'off-screen'. Considering the circumstances, I just thought it more... fitting that we only get the aftermath. The skirmish itself was only a minor thing; far better to deal with the much more significant repercussions than the action itself, which was actually a very simple one.**

**Always remember to review, people... if not, I might find myself overly distracted by that new game of Bethesda's... no, I'm joking. I'll never stop writing this, but reviews always do help. Now, read on.**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-seven: The Dark Depths of Miscarcand**

It was the sun rising over the Jeralls and sending beams of light through the window that finally woke Callia. Her eyes flickered as the sunlight hit her face, dragging her from the oblivion of unconsciousness. A tiny groan escaped from her throat as feeling started to return to her. Voices reached her ears, the words unrecognisable. She sensed a presence next to her, a rough hand on her forehead. Her eyes slowly slid open.

She was lying in a bed in one of the private rooms in the small East Wing, a simple place with bare essentials, used on the rare occasions when solitude and privacy was needed for whatever reason. Sometimes they were used to hold prisoners, which explained the shadows cast by the barred windows as the sun lit up the bleak grey stone walls. The Breton was no prisoner, however; if the ajar door wasn't enough, the pair of brown eyes searching her face were filled with genuine warmth and relief.

The Knight Sister mumbled something unintelligible, her tongue still confused as she tried weakly to rise. "Easy, Callia," warned Glenroy as he pushed her back down, his gentle hands on her shoulders pinning her easily. "You lost nearly four pints of blood. It's going to be a while before you find your feet again." The Imperial – devoid of his helmet and gauntlets - was sitting on her bed, having abandoned his chair. She blinked a few times, his face coming into sharper focus.

"What..." was all her weak voice could manage. Her comrade held a beaker of water to her lips. The cooling liquid trickled soothingly down her throat, helping to further bring her out of her long sleep. "What happened?" she asked in a slightly stronger voice after she had finished.

Glenroy sighed and tapped his fingers on his thigh. "You were returning to the Temple with Gorgoth when you were attacked in the mist in the valley just outside Bruma," he told her. "Do you remember anything about that?"

Callia frowned, attempting to remember what had happened before the darkness had taken her. There had been the mist... arrows from nowhere, striking deep. Her horse collapsing under her, throwing her from the saddle. Lightning crackling overhead before strong hands had picked her up. Then the darkness. She shook her head. "Not much," she muttered. "I think we were ambushed..."

He nodded, standing up and pacing around the room. The Breton found the strength to raise her head and watched him curiously. "You're right. Azani Blackheart's men ambushed you in the mist. They were meaning to kill Gorgoth; I figure you were just shot because you were there." He shrugged. "They wounded him quite badly, but you were worse. You'd be dead for sure if Gorgoth and Martin hadn't got that arrow out of you so quickly. As it is, you've been out for three days."

Grunting, Callia returned her gaze to the grey ceiling, her still-sluggish brain attempting to manage all the information. "Three days?" she whispered. Her eyes narrowed, and she shot a suspicious glance at Glenroy. "Am I indebted to Gorgoth?"

The Knight Brother nodded, his expression unreadable. "Him and Martin," he confirmed. "You'd be dead if not for them. Gorgoth twice over, in fact. He killed everyone attacking you and brought you back here, before he helped extract the arrow despite having five of the things still pricking him."

She groaned, closing her eyes. He'd claimed to have saved her life long ago, of course, but she'd always disputed that. Now, however, it was certain. "How can I kill him if I owe him my life?" she growled to herself. Her companion clearly overheard, but said nothing. The Breton sighed heavily. Her code of honour demanded that she avenge her mother, but if her killer had saved Callia's own life, not once, but twice... she shook her head. She'd talk to Gorgoth. "Where is he?" she asked, opening her eyes again.

"He left three days ago. Didn't even give himself a night's sleep here to recover. They'll probably be at Miscarcand by now."

Callia grunted and managed to push herself up to a sitting position, leaning on her shaky elbows, ignoring her nakedness as the blankets slid down her torso. Through sheer force of will, she shoved Gorgoth to the back of her mind; there was nothing she could do about it right now. "Azani Blackheart?" Glenroy nodded. "What about him?"

Before the Knight Brother could answer, the door swung open to admit Steffan, closely followed by a slightly bleary-eyed Martin. As the helmetless Knight Captain closed the door behind them, the heir strode over to Callia's bed, kneeling down beside it and peering intensely into her face. The Breton, slightly embarrassed by the attention, shrank back slightly, pulling the blankets up to cover her chest. "How are you feeling?" asked the Imperial, his voice soft and gentle as he checked her pulse.

"Weak," she muttered. "Tired and drained, mainly." Her sense had been dulled by her long sleep, but she could still feel the leaden sensation in her limbs, and the stuffed feeling in her head. Any exertion would be out of the question.

Nodding, the ex-priest smiled encouragingly. "You'll live," he reassured her, squeezing her hand before standing. "You'll be back on your feet soon enough. Right now, all you need is rest and some food." Callia smiled back weakly; Martin's reassurance meant a lot to her. She had joined the Blades because she wanted to serve the Emperor. She'd barely known Uriel, but here was an Emperor that she knew she would happily give her life for; not just because it was her duty, but because she liked and valued him, both as an Emperor and as a man. "See to it that she gets everything she needs," he told Steffan before leaving the room.

The Knight Captain walked over to her bed, standing beside her with his arms folded and a small smile plucking at his lips. "Get better soon," he muttered gruffly. "I need all the Blades I can count on." He squeezed her shoulder companionably. "I'll see if the canteen can knock up anything edible. Carry on." He saluted both his subordinates; Glenroy responded promptly in kind and Callia managed a weak imitation. The Captain of the Temple Garrison nodded to both of them and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Glenroy cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly, laying a hand on the helmet hanging from his hip. "I should go," he told her. "You need rest. Hardly possible with-"

"No, stay. Please." She needed someone to talk to; left alone, her thoughts might well turn to darker matters. The Imperial met her eyes for a second before nodding and pulling up a chair, ignoring the slight creak as he sat down. She replaced her head on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. "So... who exactly is this Azani Blackheart?"

Her companion sighed and drummed his fingers against his thigh. "You know he's a bandit warlord, operating in the Blackwood right now," he started. She nodded. "Turns out that he's been hired by someone powerful to kill or capture Gorgoth. We don't know why, but he's clearly willing to do that no matter who gets in the way." The Imperial's face darkened. "I don't like it when one of my Knight Sisters almost gets killed," he growled. "My opinion is shared by the rest of the Blades."

Callia grunted. "So what are we going to do about it?"

Glenroy looked up, staring out of the window. "Time will tell..." His fists clenched unconsciously around the hilt of his katana.

* * *

The Ra'Sava Camp had once been the home of a ragged group of bandits preying on the merchants of the Gold Road. Now, however, the bodies of those bandits had been unceremoniously dumped into a pile and burnt, and new occupants had taken up temporary residence in the camp. Most of these were now sleeping, stockpiling rest for their important mission to be carried out tomorrow, but like every efficient squad, one sentry remained awake and alert. His new plate armour, designed in the Akaviri style and mostly well-fitting, shone under the soft light of the moons.

Inactivity and the silence of the night gave Gorgoth time to contemplate his allies, most of whom were shapeless mounds under their blankets several feet away from him. His amber eyes slowly moved from companion to companion: Lurog, his oldest and most trusted comrade, was instantly recognisable due to insisting on sleeping in his chainmail. The steel rings stretched and relaxed as the Orc breathed deeply, snoring slightly. Next to him was Mazoga; she had joined them in Bruma – Dralasa had been nowhere to be found – but had kept away from Gorgoth for the entire three days of travel. Occasionally he would catch her glaring at his back or muttering darkly under her breath. At the moment, her face seemed marginally more peaceful at rest than it did when awake, her multitude of black braids falling haphazardly over her face. The warrior-shaman did not let his gaze linger on her. She was a comrade, nothing more, nothing less.

Moving along, his eyes found Selene's golden mane poking from the top of her bedroll. The battlemage's sleep had been the easiest he'd noted for as long as he'd known her; the rest away from the Xarxes and the slow numbing of the pain of the loss of her family was to thank for that. Gnaeus was sleeping nearby, an occasional loud snore tearing the air around him. The old Imperial's hand was clutched around the hilt of his broadsword, as always when resting. He'd become more attached to the half-elf in recent times; at least, he was less caustic by half when talking to her. Saliith's green scales were almost completely hidden by his blankets, but the plain scale armour next to the bedroll clearly identified the owner; ironic, since that particular armour was both common and cheap, particularly among Argonians.

Aerin's sleeping face was by far the most peaceful of them all; she was untroubled by the war raging around her. She knew of it, for sure, but she failed to treat it like the rest of them. Maybe that was for the best. One of her hands had escaped from her blanket and was unconsciously squeezing Ilend's hand, the Imperial being a mere foot away. He was less at rest, but his face – partially obscured by his black hair – wasn't as tortured as it once had been. In fact, a small smile was even attempting to make itself known on his face. While the warrior-shaman wasn't one for romance himself, when it was this obvious he and everyone else could detect it easily. He was tempted to wonder if either of them knew of the other's feelings for them yet, but he forced his wandering mind to move on to more important things.

"They are by far the most diverse group I have ever led or worked with," he muttered. A few feet from him, the sound of his words were fully absorbed by the barrier of Illusion magic he'd put up around himself and the Dremora he'd summoned.

"With diversity often comes versatility," remarked Xilinkar. The Markynaz was sitting on a nearby rock, running his dark red fingers over the moss growing thickly on it. His naked katana was leaning against his knee as he studied Gorgoth's companions. "This unlikely group could make a very effective fighting force. Something that even the Valkyn might respect."

"I have no doubt about that." The Orc tapped a canine contemplatively. His detect life spell would warn him of any approaching danger within range, so he could afford some distraction. "This squad could close any Oblivion Gate. I have respect for every one of them." _In varying degrees_.

The Kynaz snorted. "They'd do it honourably, no doubt," he claimed. "Unlike the present situation of our invasion. What honour is there in defeating our enemy when we outnumber them ten to one?" He spat, starting to continue before checking himself and casting a wary glance towards his summoner. Gorgoth, of course, was intelligent enough to take that offhand careless comment and use it to reach several conclusions about Dagon's attack plan.

"You are not happy with your Lord's plan?" he asked, idly scratching the tree he was sitting against, watching the bark flake off under his fingers.

Xilinkar pursed his lips. "Many of us are not happy," he admitted. "There is little honour to be gained by the Kyn in this conflict, apart from a lucky few who find it. If our Lord used an army solely of Dremora..." he sighed and spread his hands. "But all he spreads is chaos and destruction. No, we are not happy."

Gorgoth turned to regard the Markynaz with his cold gaze. If such a high-ranking, respected Kynaz such as Xilinkar was expressing discontent, then Dagon truly was reckless. "Then why not leave him?" he pressed. "The Kyn are individuals; you are tied to no one Daedra."

A low growl rose in the Dremora's throat as he glared at the Orc. "We are not disloyal," he snarled. "I follow Dagon until he gives me good reason to leave his service. The Kyn's word is honour." From the look in his eyes, he would have torn apart a less respected summoner by now.

The warrior-shaman sighed. It was times like this that reminded him that he was only twenty-eight with much to learn in some aspects. "I am sorry, Xilinkar," he grunted. Humility was impossible for him; all he could do was temper his usual cold arrogance. "My words were ill-chosen. They were easily misinterpreted." One of the few things in life he valued were the respect his summoned Daedra had for him. It was far too valuable to lose over a bad choice of words.

Snorting, the Markynaz met the Orc's gaze for several minutes before giving the slightest nod of his head. "Maybe I judged your words too quickly," he admitted. "But it would take more than mere dislike to sever my ties to Dagon."

Gorgoth nodded in agreement, falling silent for a period. Xilinkar started to sharpen his katana; a useless exercise, as daedric steel would never lose its edge, but it clearly helped focus the Dremora's mind. His summoner, however, was willing to continue conversation. "What do you think your chances for victory are?" he asked suddenly. The whetstone stopped its movement. It was somewhat ironic that he was conversing with an enemy whilst on a mission to help win the war on which they were on the opposite sides of.

"If anyone else had been their champion, I would have said we would win easily," the Markynaz told him, before returning to his task.

That told the Orc all he needed to know. He fell silent again, keeping watch until the eastern sky started to lighten. "I must make preparations for the coming day," he told his companion. "May we never meet on the opposite side of the field of battle." Xilinkar grunted his agreement and stood, sheathing his katana as Gorgoth sent him back to Oblivion.

The warrior-shaman rose to his feet, eyes on the eastern horizon. When he judged it to be light enough, he quietly walked over to Lurog and shook his comrade's shoulder. The Orc's eyes flew open, and he blinked a few times before they focused. "Time to get moving," muttered Gorgoth.

* * *

It was clear, even now, that the Ayleid city of Miscarcand had once been magnificent. Towering stone walls shone in the morning sunlight, surrounding crumbling ruins of what had once been Ayleid buildings. Long centuries of harsh weather and multitudes of vines and creepers could not completely eradicate the fine elven stonework, claimed by many to still be unequalled in Tamriel. The wind dropped inside the walls, and sounds from outside grew hushed, as though they had entered a sacred place. Even the atmosphere seemed silent and still.

"I've only been here before once," Aerin was telling Ilend as the group moved cautiously through the dead city. "Me and my father camped just outside on the way to the Imperial City from Valenwood. We didn't camp inside, though. It gave him the creeps." She shuddered slightly and gripped Trueshot harder, looking around warily and keeping her arrow nocked to the string. "Gives me the creeps too..." Despite her flamboyant antics in the Arena, she hated this feeling of being watched. It was far more sinister than anything hundreds of Imperial gamblers could come up with.

"I don't blame you," muttered the Imperial. "I don't like the look of those shadows..." No light shone from any building that still had four walls and a roof. The shadows there even seemed blacker then normal. "I remember some bandits tried to make camp here after we destroyed their other hideout. We never heard from them again."

"I'm not surprised," added Selene, who seemed far more at her ease, striding along easily with her glaive slung over her shoulder. "The Ayleid spirits are always restless. Always will be. I don't think we've got anything to worry about on the surface until night falls, though." Ilend glanced at her, grunted at her relative ease, and visibly tried to loosen his shoulders. Aerin sighed. He'd probably want another massage after this. Not that she was ever inclined to complain about that.

A shrill gabbling up ahead seized everyone's attention, and most of the squad's weapons were pointing towards a half-destroyed archway as a goblin came stumbling through it, constantly glancing over its shoulder. The creature's sheer terror was evident, and apparently it was fleeing from something so terrible that it judged a group of well-armed fighters less of a threat and tried to rush through them. Lurog casually grabbed it with one hand and took half its head off with a blow of his mace.

"It doesn't take much to put the fear of the Gods into goblin rabble," observed Gnaeus, letting his broadsword fall back to his side. He spat at the bleeding corpse as they past it. "Filthy creatures...always did prefer hunting men. At least they were sometimes a challenge. And didn't smell as bad. Mostly."

Saliith rolled his eyes. "You can't talk about smell, old man," he rasped, making a point of rubbing the end of his snout with his free hand.

"At least I don't smell like I just crawled out of a swamp. You lizard-rats never lose the stench."

Growling quietly, the Argonian turned to glare at the old hermit, who returned the favour with a cold, dismissive glance. Several howls, however, put an end to the tension as everyone gripped their weapons, looking around for the increasingly evident danger. "Not much to worry about until night, eh?" Ilend asked Selene, his hair jerking around as his eyes searched from shadow to shadow.

Gorgoth cut off the half-elf's reply by raising a hand and pointing to a massive stone door positioned in a hollow, elaborately decorated with carvings. "There is the entrance," he announced. "Always be on your guard. Selene, take the rear." He walked up to the doors and pressed his hand to the circle in the centre. Nothing happened.

"It'll require the Ayleid password," the half-elf told him as she walked up, motioning him aside. "There should be a clue somewhere on the door..." her gauntleted fingers traced the words interspersed among the carvings.

"Please don't tell me we came all the way here without a password," snorted Mazoga, folding her arms and glaring at the door. Aerin rolled her eyes. The Orc had been short and snappish with everyone except Lurog on the way down, though it only took the memory of having once found the warrior unconsciously gazing at Gorgoth's face like a lovestruck Breton teenager to bring a smirk to the Wood Elf's lips. At that moment, Selene muttered a few words in a completely unrecognisable dialect. The doors slowly swung open, grinding harshly on the paving stones. Instantly, the howls grew much more audible.

"We're going in _there_?" asked Aerin, grimacing at the gaping hole in the ground. It was pitch black, the sunlight seemingly stopping at the door. The muted dormant fear of Miscarcand suddenly flared inside her, and the Bosmer took a step back, pale face growing even paler. She wasn't the only one; Mazoga grunted as though she'd been punched in the stomach, and Selene had raised a hand as though to ward off evil.

As she was about to take another step back, the archer felt a hand squeezing her shoulder and turned to find Ilend's blue eyes meeting hers. There was no fear in them. "I'm only ever going to be three paces from you, and you've got everyone else here. We're all in this together." The calm courage of his voice and eyes relaxed her, and the fear abated somewhat. She smiled at him before stepping forward again. Gorgoth had already entered the ruin, his brilliant light penetrating where the sun could not.

"No danger," he declared, motioning for them to follow him as he started walking deeper. Aerin found herself between Saliith and Ilend with an arrow half-drawn, her eyes scanning the few shadows that escaped the light cast by the globes summoned by Gorgoth and Selene. "Watch your step," rumbled the warrior-shaman from up ahead. "For those without illumination, this would be a death trap." It was easy to see what he meant; the passage was littered with pressure plates and the hapless goblins that had stepped on them, now perforated and shattered by bolts shot from the walls.

"They still work after all this time?" asked Gnaeus, motioning towards some of the bolt-holes with his sword.

"Somehow. We'll never truly understand Ayleid magic," Selene told him. She sometimes walked backwards for several steps to check that they weren't being followed. "There should be light up ahead. This is just a line of defence for one their more important cities."

"You have to wonder what drove these bastards in here," muttered Saliith, poking a goblin's corpse with his toe. "From what I've seen of the filthy greenskins, they take flight at any hint of something more powerful than them."

"Well... there are some good goblin hunters around Skingrad," Ilend told him, smirking. "Maybe they didn't have anywhere else to go." He exchanged a knowing glance with Aerin; it was clear that Ah-Malz had been so bored in Skingrad recently that he was going on more and more goblin hunts. At least it was a good way of training the men.

As if summoned by the conversation concerning them, two goblins rushed around the corner in the corridor a short distance in front of them. At the sight of the light, they skidded to a halt, gibbering in fright and clutching uncertainly at their weapons. Gorgoth made a slight motion with his left hand and the air around the duo froze, attacking their skin, searing their lungs. By the time the group had reached them, their sweat had long frozen on their lifeless bodies.

"Prepare to be attacked soon enough," warned the Orc, removing Blood King from his back. "There is light up ahead."

"Good," grunted Lurog. "There is no honour in sneaking around in the darkness. Best to face your foe directly."

"Funny how you seemed to forget that in all our ambushes," remarked Mazoga dryly. The Orc had moved up to walk beside Gorgoth with her sword drawn. "I also seem to remember how you-" Another fleeing goblin cut her off as it rushed around the corner. She moved to smoothly impale it before kicking it off her blade.

"Finally," muttered Aerin as the group turned the corner into some light provided by natural crystals and not by Illusion magic. Sounds of battle drifted through a wide archway ahead of them, and Mazoga sped up, entering it at a run. The rest of them filed through moments later.

Goblins – there looked to be scores of them – were fighting a desperate battle with an army of skeletons. The massive cavern was alive with the screams of the dying, the battle cries of the living, and the hissing whispers of the undead as they methodically put their unskilled foes to the sword. Thick, putrid blood was already flowing fast, and was so slippery underfoot that Ilend almost fell as he started his charge into the fray. He need not have bothered, however; Gorgoth merely took a step forward and raised his left hand, which momentarily glowed bright purple.

An explosion of sheer force in the centre of the battlefield burst outwards, throwing goblins and skeletons against the far walls with such power that their broken bodies rebounded several times off the ground before sliding to a halt. Aerin relaxed the pressure on her bowstring and looked sideways at the warrior-shaman. It was sometimes easy to forget that this normally stoic, reserved – even placid – Orc could do such things. A chill ran down her spine at the thought of his full fury being unleashed on some entity that had displeased him.

"Not bad," remarked Saliith, sheathing his shortswords. "Less work for us, I guess. Though you will leave _some_ for us, won't you?" The Orc made no reply as he gazed around the cavern, trying to ascertain a direction.

"This place is massive," grunted Ilend, slamming his longsword back into its scabbard with unnecessary force. "We could be in here for days. I think we might lose count if we tried to have a competition, Twi- Saliith." Aerin smirked; back in Cloud Ruler Temple, the Imperial had been left with two bruised ribs after using the Grand Champion's hated nickname. She also recalled being so smug about it that the Guildsman had replaced her water with the most powerful vodka he could lay his hands on.

"Too bad; you'll lose out on the humiliation of being beaten by your elders," snorted Gnaeus, glaring at a fallen skeleton as though it had insulted him by dying in a provocative fashion.

Gorgoth was tapping his canine. "It would take too long to search if we were to stay together," he claimed. "We should split up. Selene, take Aerin, Ilend and Gnaeus and explore in that direction." The warrior-shaman pointed towards a large archway in the far corner of the cavernous room. "Lurog, Mazoga, Saliith, you're with me. We all have supplies for three days. If we do not find each other again, we'll meet up on the surface. You'll know the Great Welkynd Stone when you see it."

"Yeah, I gather that it'd be hard ta miss," remarked Aerin sardonically, falling in behind Selene as the group split. They entered a corridor lit by pillars of glowing blue stones, not unlike Welkynd stones but with far less magical energy. Selene let her magical light dissipate and motioned for the Wood Elf to lead.

"You have good eyes. Shoot anything that moves," she commanded. The archer nodded and nocked an arrow as she cautiously led the way, peering suspiciously into shadows, the ever-present fear of Miscarcand dulled by the three pairs of boots echoing off the white walls behind her. All she had to do was worry about what was in front.

That turned out to be goblins; five of them, discussing quietly in their primitive tongue. The Bosmer halted, swiftly drew the arrow to her cheek and fired. Screeching in alarm as one of their number went down with a pierced skull the creatures turned to find two swordsman mere feet behind them. The two Imperials wasted no time in effortlessly dispatching their panicked victims. "Shouldn't be too many more of these," observed Selene as the last one fell. "Pretty soon we'll be up against the denizens of Miscarcand. Then it might get tricky."

"Always full of good news, ain't ya?" muttered Aerin as she retrieved her arrow. Ilend snorted as he cleaned his blade on a rag torn from a goblin's jerkin.

"Best to make the most of the easy times while you can," he remarked, keeping his now-clean sword out of its scabbard and brushing his hair back behind his ear. The Bosmer's planned response was cut off in formation as something moved in the shadows behind the Imperial. Yelling a warning, she leapt forward and grabbed him, pulling him down as a massive claymore cut through the empty air that his body had just vacated. The skeleton hissed and raised the mighty weapon for another blow, ignorant of the approaching danger until Gnaeus cut its spine in two.

"There's more!" shouted Selene, sending a large fireball flashing down the corridor towards three more skeletons. Ilend scrambled to his feet, helping Aerin up with him as they turned to deal with the undead coming from the other direction. The archer barely had time to draw her shortsword before a skeleton was swinging its war axe at her face. She ducked and swung a kick into its hip, putting it off-balance, but it recovered enough to parry her attack, leaving a gash on her forearm in the process. Grimacing at the stinging pain, the Wood Elf swapped sword hands and struck with a quick thrust, but using the intuition that came with long years of unlife, the skeleton darted sideways and slammed bony knuckles into her forehead. Stumbling backwards, slightly dazed by the punch, she managed to back away from her foe long enough to survive until a daedric longsword severed both arms before decapitating it. The skull bounced a few times before rolling to a halt against the foot of a pillar.

"Just a scratch," mumbled the Bosmer as she removed her weakest healing potion from her belt. They might have been minor, but the cut on her arm and bruise on her forehead certainly hurt. The Guildsman took the potion from her and instead laid a hand on her head, sending Restoration magic running through her before tucking the potion back into her belt. She smiled gratefully and turned to survey the surprisingly large collection of bones piled up nearby.

"I think we're outscoring you," smirked her companion, giving her a playful nudge in the ribs. She grunted, slightly humbled by the demonstration of her lack of skill in close quarters while being grateful for the slight slackening of the ever-present tension. Gnaeus looked sideways at the pair of them, harrumphed, and went back to examining his broadsword for any damage.

"Come on, let's get moving before more of them show up," Selene told them, tapping her glaive against her boot somewhat impatiently. "That's going to be inevitable in a ruin like this." She jerked her head forward, motioning for Aerin to take the lead again.

Random attacks continued in this vein for some time, and after a few hours of fruitless searching through the dead Ayleid city, the battlemage ordered a rest. As the other three slid down to sit against the walls, relaxing as much as they could, the half-elf investigated the small chamber they were in, checking for any malignant being. There was no threat; it appeared to have been a storeroom once, with heavy casks lying around haphazardly, their contents long since rotted away in most cases. She pulled a small beautifully-made dagger out of one, twirling it around in her palm. Tiny flames sometimes flared along the length of the blade, and the curved hilt was pleasantly warm despite having lain undisturbed for centuries. "Good enchantment," she grunted to herself, slipping the dagger through her belt.

"You ever intending to go back to the Arena?" Ilend was asking on the opposite side of the room. He and the former Warrior of the Imperial City Arena had been lightening their packs somewhat by chewing the cold remnants of a deer they'd shot yesterday.

Aerin shrugged. "Probably not, but I don't tend ta think about the future too much these days." It was true; she'd barely thought about the Arena since leaving the Imperial City with Gorgoth months ago. It had always only been a means to an end, a way of supporting herself and paying the rent on her shack in the Waterfront. That shack probably had a new tenant right now, but they were welcome to it as far as she was concerned. She'd found something more fulfilling - not to mention far more exciting – than the Arena had ever been. And she highly doubted that the man sitting next to her would be content to leave Skingrad after the war was over, so seeing him again would be unlikely if she returned. The choice couldn't have been easier.

The Imperial's reply was delayed by a particularly chewy hunk of venison, so the Bosmer had more time to think. She didn't tend to dwell on the future much; it was far better to be fully involved in the present than waste time brooding about what might be. That was how most people tended to live at the Arena; there was no point in looking forward because your life could end in your next fight. More recently, however, she had been looking forward more often, pondering over what she would do when the Oblivion Crisis was resolved. That it would be won was certain; she had complete – if slightly irrational – trust in Gorgoth's ability. A deep voice next to her dispelled her reverie before it could even begin. "You ever thought of joining the Fighter's Guild?"

She turned her head to look Ilend in the eyes. "From time ta time," she replied, a slight smirk plucking at her lips. "Course, if it's filled with sweaty, hairy, unwashed, over-competitive morons like yourself, I might have ta stay away." She nudged him in the ribs, her smirk growing wider.

He laughed. "If that was the case, you'd fit right in," he remarked, nudging her in return. "No, seriously, it's a good future. Free bed and board. The food isn't too bad. And you get used to the tedium. You might not even get much of that if you get a plentiful supply of contracts."

The archer's reply died in her throat as a strong hand silently seized her elbow and dragged her to her feet. Her eyes were drawn to the battleaxe curving over the skeleton's head, some of it still in the shadows from which it had crept. Desperately, Aerin tried to throw herself sideways, but the undead's grasp was unbreakable. She groped for her own sword, despite knowing that it would be too late. As that mighty axe-head cleaved through the air towards her, she was aware of a powerful shout beside her, but was completely surprised as Ilend threw himself at the skeleton, clawing at its weapon arm. Instead of splitting her skull, the flat of the axe glanced off her shoulder, tearing her from its grasp and sending her sprawling to the ground with her upper arm in agony.

Rolling onto her front and struggling to raise herself with her good arm, the Bosmer was sent sliding across the floor again, this time due to a vicious kick in the ribs by one of the three skeletons that had just rushed into the storeroom. Unsheathing her sword with her one good arm, Aerin gritted her teeth and hauled herself to her feet. The only time she'd felt pain worse than this was in the Tournament of the Ten Bloods, but in Boethia's realm she hadn't been spurred on by the sight of her closest friend attempting to fight several opponents at once. The cramped space meant that it was only took two steps for her to be within range, and she wasted no time in thrusting her elven blade into the nearest skeleton's spine, twisting it until the bone snapped.

As though acting on instinct alone, the crumbling minion's companion swung his claymore in the Wood Elf's direction without even looking at her, forcing her to duck and almost cry out at the pain now flaring all over her left side. Stumbling forward, the archer swung clumsily at the skeleton's ribcage. Her attack glanced off the bones, leaving no more than a few chips. The bony fist of her adversary smashed into her torso, driving her backwards, gasping for breath and once again stunned by the force that undead could strike with despite having no muscle. As it stepped forward, raising its sword again, Selene darted in and knocked its legs from under it with the blunt end of her glaive before swinging it around to bury the blade into her opponent's skull.

Aerin was fumbling for a potion when Ilend's cry of pain snapped her head up. A snarl of agony and rage contorted his face as he fought on one-handed, pinned to the wall with a spear through his left shoulder. The Bosmer tore her hand away from her belt and launched herself forward, landing on the back of one of the skeletons attacking the Guildsman and dragging it the ground, ignoring the stabbing agony of her battered body and hacking at its head. Her victim's comrade turned to kick her off him, but failed to account for the daedric longsword that was thrown the short distance into its back.

Panting, the archer slowly raised her head and looked around, checking for any remaining danger despite the nauseating pain. Gnaeus was leaning against the entrance to the room, on the lookout for any other approaching danger. Blood was slowly trickling down his thigh from a gash, but he'd got off easily compared to Ilend, who finally managed to remove the spear head from his shoulder with the assistance of Selene and some fortification magic. Finally convinced that they were safe – for now - the Bosmer groaned and tried to rise. The agony of a dislocated shoulder, broken collarbone, several cracked ribs and a multitude of bruises made themselves fully known in the absence of adrenaline. She vomited noisily before collapsing.

When she next opened her eyes, she found herself in an entirely different room, slightly larger with crystals of various colours lining the walls. The Wood Elf groaned and wriggled her left arm slightly. There was no pain, but memories of the agony still made her wince slightly. Before she could sit up, there was a scrambling nearby and a clinking of chainmail as Ilend sat down on the stone slab she was lying on. Dried blood surrounded a small hole in his armour, but that seemed to be the only lasting memento of that furious, desperate melee. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice full of concern. "You were out for over an hour."

She slowly swung her legs around to sit beside him before answering. "Never better. Come on, ya know I always bounce back." She playfully squeezed his knee, smirking. "If I let something like a few bad-tempered old elves kill me, I'd never have made it out of my dancing job." The Guildsman couldn't help laughing, all concern evaporating.

"You could try a bad-tempered old man for size if you don't let him get his much-needed rest," growled Gnaeus from across the cavern from where he was leaning with his back to a pillar, facing the heavy metal door which Selene seemed to have magically locked. "If you're going to start screwing each other, there's a suitable dark corner somewhere over there." His wizened hand waved towards the back of the room, where there were less crystals in evidence.

"Let me tell you, old man: the neighbours complained about the sound back when I was 'entertaining' my previous lover," remarked Ilend, folding his arms. "I doubt you'd get much rest with that going on." Aerin was already sniggering uncontrollably.

"Well, for one thing, I could Silence the area around you, but right now, we'd best get moving," Selene told them from her position near the door, clearly standing guard. Although her wounds had long since been healed, she too had suffered in the assault; her boots were splattered with drying crimson stains.

"Let's just avoid small areas where we can get swarmed, eh?" suggested Aerin, sliding off her slab and picking up Trueshot from where it lay. "I'd personally rather not have ta get my sword dirty again. I'll leave that ta you fine gents..." Smirking, she ran her hands over the arrows in her quiver and followed the half-elf out of the chamber.

* * *

"How long has it been? A day now?" Saliith shook his head, scratching his scales in annoyance. The constant cold had been getting debilitating until Gorgoth's magic had prevented it from affecting him. Most of the previous hours seemed to meld together into one long running battle with skeletons and other undead as they'd descended deeper into the city. Chips in his shortswords and a few missing throwing knives were evidence of how many enemies there were; tears in his scale armour were evidence of how hard they fought.

"The passage of time is not important," rumbled Gorgoth from up ahead. "What matters is that we do not waste any." The warrior-shaman was leading the way, dispatching any minor threats with whatever spell appeared to take his fancy at the time. Saliith was fine with that; it meant that he could save his strength and his potions for the large engagements that occurred whenever the spirits of Miscarcand attacked them in force.

"We've got enough supplies for two more days," announced Mazoga, bringing up the rear. The Argonian frowned for a second as he tried to distinguish the words from her thick accent; it was sometimes hard enough to listen to fast-speaking Imperials, let alone barely-civilised Orcs. Particularly when there were three of them. His attention was momentarily distracted by a skeleton looming up out of a cloud of light mist ahead of them. The warrior-shaman scattered its bones with a well-placed fireball, barely breaking stride.

The more he fought for a victory of great importance, the more Saliith realised how little the Arena actually meant. Yes, he'd gained immortality as The Green Tornado, but what did that actually mean? He'd won fame and the adoration, the worship of thousands, but it would all be meaningless if Dagon swept across Tamriel, wreaking destruction and havoc at every turn. A Grand Champion staying at the Arena might well kill a few Daedra, but he would be defeated; if, on the other hand, he helped to pre-emptively strike at the enemy, he could prevent that. He knew what choice he would now take.

Gorgoth would approve, no doubt. The lizard knew relatively little about the mysterious warrior-shaman, but he was certainly indebted to him. Not only for helping him at the start of the path that would make him Grand Champion, but for helping him realise the truly important things in life. He and Branwen had been happy misguided fools. Had she been alive, would she agree with him? The Argonian shook his head. They would discuss it in Aetherius. That would be soon, as he held no illusions about his probability of survival. He was an outstanding one-on-one fighter, a born crowd-pleaser and duel-winner, but against the armies of Dagon, he would be overwhelmed. His only hope was that he make a significant contribution before his end came.

Up ahead, their leader raised a warning hand, instantly stopping the small group. "Large chamber up ahead," he told them, his voice a low grunt. "Watch the shadows." Three nods acknowledged his words and weapons were gripped slightly firmer. The Orc conjured a globe of light and, raising it far above his head, entered the chamber.

It provided the perfect illumination for the skeleton that leapt at him, warhammer swinging down in a killing blow. Gorgoth's left hand clenched into a fist and a wave of air slammed into his opponent, sending him flying into several of his brethren. As they scattered, his hand grew bright as he prepared some kind of Destruction magic, but Saliith was soon distracted by yet more undead coming from every direction save the way they had come from. Lurog and Mazoga instantly went back-to-back near their fellow Orc, trusting the warrior-shaman to cover their flanks, but the much more agile Argonian had no intention of letting his short reach betray him in relatively static combat.

He sprinted into action, rolling between two skeletons and slicing through the vulnerable gaps between their knees and shins. Rising, he buried both blades in their skulls as they fell and jumped, evading his next opponent's low swing and kicking it in that ever-grinning face. Chopping both blades through its neck as he landed, the lizard shoved the falling body aside and parried an approaching scimitar. Stepping back to regain his balance, he froze, his body growing rigid. Glancing down, he saw the point of an ancient elven longsword poking out of his stomach. Stunned by the mortal blow, he barely felt any pain as his backstabber wrenched the blade out of him, tearing through bone and flesh, spilling body fluids over the stone floor. The coppery tang of blood filled his mouth as the Grand Champion slowly attempted to turn, to attempt to take his killer down with him.

He'd expected to see a leer, a mocking light in those empty eye sockets. Instead, he was slightly shocked to find a headless body slowly toppling over. The Argonian dimly heard a clatter as Selene threw her glaive aside to catch him as he fell, Ilend and Gnaeus moving to defend her flanks. Powerful healing magic started pumping through his dying body, finding the wound and closing it, restoring the energies of life. The half-elf's concerned green eyes continued to gaze into his as she sent a slight jolt of lighting throughout his body, snapping his head up, senses fully restored.

"Get me up!" he panted at her, finding that he was still clutching both his shortswords. The sounds of battle were resonating around the chamber; a dull explosion made the floor quake and dust fell in prodigious quantities from the high ceiling. She obliged, wrapping both arms around his torso and heaving him to his feet before backing away and sending ball lightning flashing towards a group of skeletons. Still slightly unbalanced, Saliith staggered before being stopped by Aerin's hand on his arm.

"Don't you die just yet, Twitch-Tail!" she shouted gleefully at him over the continuing explosions as Gorgoth wrought havoc among the waves of undead. "I'm way ahead on the scorecards! Come on, I wanted a challenge!" With that, she skipped away from him, pausing to send a perfectly-aimed arrow through a skeleton's mouth.

Shaking his head at the Wood Elf's antics, Saliith grabbed a throwing knife and sent it spinning into a nearby target's leg, forcing it down on one knee and presenting an easy target for Gnaeus's broadsword. Turning, he ducked under a wild lunge, finding that his legs were still slightly unsteady before managing to roll through his adversary's legs. It spun, but not quickly enough; the Argonian's blades severed its sword arm before he kicked it backwards onto a pile of bones, all that remained of a large group of its fellow undead.

The massive assault finally petered out; there simply were not enough denizens of Miscarcand to defeat two powerful battlemages on unfavourable ground, particularly not when they were both supported by very able warriors. The sheer strength and skill of their opponents had taken its toll, however; a skeleton's sword had snapped off inside Mazoga's thigh, leaving a two-foot length of steel firmly embedded in her leg. Lurog's chainmail was torn in several places, Gnaeus was bleeding heavily from a wound in his back, and no one else was without a minor wound of some sort.

Sighing, Saliith sheathed his weapons, feeling a slight weakness come over him as the adrenaline left him. He looked down at his stomach. The only legacy of that wound was the small gash in his scale armour and a smearing of blood around it. His memory, however, of that rapid numbing sensation, that approaching blackness, would stay with him until death finally did take him. He'd come close enough to death before in the Arena, but never before had he felt that he'd already had one foot in Aetherius. Leaning back on a nearby pedestal – one of several that dotted the chamber, each hosting a Welkynd Stone – he sighed, trying to ease some of the tension that gripped his body.

"How have you lot been doing?" he rasped, closing his eyes as Aerin strolled languidly over to him. She seemed uncaring about the numerous rips and tears in her leather armour, but that was to be expected; this was Aerin, after all.

"Much the same as you, I'd imagine," she replied, leaning against the same pedestal, her shoulder brushing his arm. "A load of dead skellies, boring corridors, empty rooms... and then we find you lot and pull your arse out of the fire." She nudged him. "Don't scare me like that again, OK? I thought you were dead."

"Next time, I'll ask the malicious undead bastard behind me to consider the feelings of a rather annoying Bosmer before stabbing me," responded Saliith dryly. He folded his arms and looked on, wincing in empathy, as Gorgoth disintegrated the remnants of the sword stuck in Mazoga's leg before healing her. It was a rare fighter who could force steel through ebony plate armour; a showcase of just how well the Ayleids had made weapons, and the power with which the undead here were imbued.

The archer smirked before shivering slightly and hugging herself. "It seems ta get colder every minute down here," she complained. "Must be even worse for you."

He chuckled. "Gorgoth wrapped me in a heating spell of his," he said, grinning smugly at her jealous glare. The ever-present warmth seemed slightly unnatural, but it was far better than freezing to death. "But, if I'm honest, the cold is the least of our worries. How many healing potions do you have left?"

Aerin grunted and patted the two vials in her belt. "You'd think we'd have saved more with a good healer around," she muttered. "But sometimes we just couldn't wait for her ta get detached from whatever she was blowing up."

The half-elf in question had just finished conferring with Gorgoth, who glanced around at the carnage. "From now on, we move forward together," he announced. "There cannot be far to go. Stay vigilant." He motioned towards a large archway on the far side of the chamber. "There are likely to be many more Ayleids ahead, but we will get that Stone or die trying. Get moving."

* * *

Several hours later, none of them had yet died trying despite the best efforts of the Ayleids to defend their dead city, which rivalled the Imperial City for size. The group had passed through residential districts, several barracks, workshops, and what appeared to be mansions, to name but a few of the wonders of Miscarcand. All of this – save for a few normal Welkynd Stones - was ignored by Gorgoth. He was not prepared to risk the future of the entire world as he knew it just to study the remnants of an ancient civilisation. "We are getting close," he told the group as they prepared to end their most recent rest stop.

"How do you know?" enquired Aerin, frowning as she counted the arrows in her quiver. She only had six left. "We've been down in this place for what, two days now? And I have no idea where we are. Unless you've got a map?"

"The design down here is far more extravagant," explained Selene, who had been listening in. "A far cry from the normal elegant simplicity of the Ayleids. I think we might be near the King's section. We'll probably find the Stone there." The archer nodded and started to pull her boots back on. Gorgoth leant his head back on the pillar and studied the engraved mural across from him on the opposite wall. Never the best reader, he could nonetheless read the four languages he spoke with some modicum of skill, but he was completely ignorant of all but a few words of Ayleid. Those words, of course, would forever remain branded on his memory.

_Mor Naga av nou Ehlno Jorani_. Dark death to our mortal betrayers. He had seen that inscription, splattered with his own blood, for a mere second, but he would never forget it. Even thinking about the words sparked a throbbing pain in the long, dark scar that reached across his torso, stretching from the top of his stomach to the start of his left thigh. Sinweaver had bitten hard and bitten deep; he would feel the effects of the enchantment to his dying day. He forced the ancient claymore from his mind. There were more important things to think about. Ignoring the pain, he turned to his comrades. "Resistance will probably be fewer in number, but stronger in ability, if my logic is correct," he warned them, turning to unbar the door.

His logic was indeed correct. Few skeletons patrolled these broad, well-lit corridors, but they wielded their large blades and axes with even more precision, and some wore scraps of plate armour. Quality, however, was not enough to stop eight battle-hardened, determined combatants. Not even the increased presence of ghosts, many of whom chose to emerge from the walls in an attempt to surprise them, did much to delay the group. Eventually, a pair of massive stone doors swung open to reveal a large, cavernous room. Gorgoth ordered the rest to move in and spread out to take up defensive positions as he crossed the bridge to reach the pedestal in the centre of the room.

The Great Welkynd Stone's pale blue light lit up the entire chamber. Held in place by an iron pedestal with sharp drops to the ground below on two sides, the artefact was a thin, smooth crystal about a foot long. As he approached it, the Orc could feel the immense amounts of magical energy running through its construction, the shimmering lights under the surface sparking in tune with the humming of power. He looked at it for a few seconds before cautiously removing it from its place. It was cold; not the cold of a crystal untouched for centuries, but a more magical cold.

"_Naga av ehlnoi! Tyavoy nou molag! Tyavoy nou mafre!_" As his furious words were still hanging in the air, the King of Miscarcand appeared on a platform high above their heads. His long lichdom had ensured that not one Ayleid feature remained on his enraged face; what skin remained stretched over his skeleton had long since rotted beyond recognition. His dark robes were equally filthy, but the highly-charged aura surrounding him and the tall wooden staff in his hands were alive with power. Extending a bony finger towards the intruders, he spat a stream of instructions. Skeletons arose from nothingness in the area below the pedestal, two sets of stairs rapidly rising to allow them to do their lord's bidding.

Gorgoth met the lich-king's eyes for mere seconds before glancing towards his comrades. "Run!" He was the first to follow his own bellowed command, clenching his left hand around the Stone and sprinting around the pedestal, across the second half of the bridge. "Run, if you value your lives!" By the time he had reached the door on the far side of the cavern, they were hot on his heels. The warrior-shaman sent a powerful fireball ahead of him, shattering the doors and leaping over the debris.

He turned and saw each of his comrades through, sending ball lightning back at the approaching mass of skeletons, ripping many apart only to see them replaced by more. The King levitated down to hover above his followers and raised his staff and free hand. Gorgoth's hastily-erected shield shattered under the onslaught of a howling inferno of elemental magic, huge columns of fire, frost and lightning tearing the entire wall apart. The Orc was blasted backwards down the corridor, slamming into his rearmost companions and taking them to the ground, eventually sliding to a halt against a wall. Only the powerful shield he'd wrapped around his body had saved him from certain death.

"What in Oblivion is _that_?" choked Aerin as Lurog hauled her to her feet. "Can we even kill it?"

"He is the King of Miscarcand," growled Gorgoth, getting to his feet and looking behind them. The corridor had collapsed inwards, blocking the way back with massive slabs of rubble. "That will not stop him. We need to find a place where we can face him on something like equal terms."

"Why not just run?" demanded Selene. "This could be part of a quick escape route the kings had to the surface. Look at its comparable simplicity to-"

"Damn it, Selene, this is not the time to be discussing stonework!" exploded Ilend, glaring around and clutching the hilt of his sword tightly. "We need to be moving, not talking!"

"The King has been down here for millennia," grunted Gorgoth, placing the Stone in his belt bag, leaving both hands free for spellcasting. "He knows this place far better than any of us. If we run for too long, he will slaughter us. We have to defeat him."

"You got a plan, greenskin?" barked Gnaeus. "I haven't seen you do anything so far apart from run for your pathetic life."

"We will move on," replied the Orc, brushing past the old hermit and starting off in the only direction available to them. "Move quickly, but watch for anything. He can teleport with impunity, I am sure."

The King, however, did not bother them at first. They rapidly found that the passageway was uphill, and started sloping upwards more sharply as they progressed. Their leader kept up a punishing pace, running for longer and faster than anyone would expect for a large Orc wearing heavy plate armour. Eventually, upon reaching a small, simple chamber off to the side of the main passage, he ordered a rest. Most of the group instantly slumped down against the four ornate pillars decorating the room, but the warrior-shaman merely moved to where he could see most of his surroundings, including the only door in and out. Selene joined him, panting and resting her weight on her glaive.

"What kind of chances do we have?" she asked him, leaning heavily against the wall as she checked her magical potions. Each mage had several strong potions that would restore their magical energies; they might be enough.

"Both of us together might be able to defeat him," grunted her companion, maintaining a powerful spell of life detection. "Our comrades might not be allowed to get close, but they will form a considerable distraction. And he will not be expecting the penetrating power of Trueshot. No one ever expects Trueshot." He motioned Aerin over. The Bosmer reluctantly dragged herself to her feet and lurched over. "How many arrows do you have left?" he asked.

"Four," she sighed. "Why? I only need one ta deal a death blow. Just gimme the chance."

Gorgoth leaned forward, resting both hands on her shoulders and staring into her eyes. She gulped and hesitantly returned his gaze. It was clear that she was still slightly scared of him. At another time, he might have said a few words to put her fears to rest – she was highly unlikely to ever give him a reason to harm her, and he always treated those he called comrades with honour and respect – but now, there was more important business at hand. "Do not miss," he told her. "It must be fatal. Aim for the heart or the head. Any more than one shot, and he will learn the power of your bow."

Her expression was one of uncertainty as she gulped again. "You... you take Trueshot, if you want," she offered, patting the bow on her back. "You can-" the Orc was shaking his head.

"I cannot," he growled. "My magic must keep him occupied. I cannot do that with a bow in my hands. And you are a better archer than I can ever hope to be." He squeezed her shoulders gently. "Aerin, I trust you. I know you will not fail us." She smiled, the uncertainty in her gaze easing slightly as he straightened, releasing her. "Now get whatever rest you can. But do not sleep."

He watched her as she walked back to a pillar and slid down next to Ilend, easing Trueshot of her back for comfort. He trusted her to a certain extent – she was far from gaining his full trust, as was anyone who had known him for less than two years – but he also actually felt that, deep down, he was starting to like her. She was a departure from the completely different Orcish culture, for one thing, and he admired her ability to boost morale, at least for the short term. Grunting, he dragged his mind back to the task at hand. "What's our plan?" Selene was asking.

"We throw whatever magic we can at him. He will have numerous shields and reflections up, of course. His robes might be enchanted, but he will not be relying on those alone. If both of us can swamp him with dispelling magic, we might bring his defences down to give us a chance at dealing some real damage." He sighed and looked around at his mundane comrades, most of whom would probably be dead soon enough. Neither he nor Selene could spare the magicka to wrap them all in protective spells. They would have to fend for themselves.

A shimmering pink image suddenly appeared in his field of vision, slightly above them and further along the passageway. No skeleton or ghost would cast that life signature, and no mortal would be able to teleport this far underground without a Mark. "Be ready!" he roared, his mighty voice resonating throughout the cavern as his companions surged to their feet. The pink image disappeared then reappeared as the King of Miscarcand teleported into the centre of the chamber, a mere foot away from Ilend.

"_Tya balangua!_" The Ayleid's battle cry downed out all other sounds as his magicka exploded outwards, blasting everyone back against the walls except for Gorgoth and Selene, both of whom already had their shields up. Both mages instantly sent Destruction magic powerful enough to level buildings at him, but what the lich didn't absorb, he reflected, forcing them to block their own spells. Instantly, they switched to sending scores of small but powerful balls of dispelling magicka at him, only to find that he could tear apart their spells before they even reached him, or absorb them with expendable shields.

This magical fight was completely ignored by Ilend, who ran in with his sword raised to cleave down into the ancient elf's skull. A casual flick of the hand sent him spiralling backwards, dealt a stunning blow by a huge fist of air. He landed heavily against the wall, not only cracking the back of his skull but crushing Aerin between him and the stone. The Bosmer gasped and dropped Trueshot, all the air forced from her body. Lurog tried a similar attack only to have his shield shattered by ball lightning, along with most of the bones in his arm. Saliith ran halfway up a pillar and jumped off, aiming high, only to find himself pinned to the ceiling by three well-placed icicles.

Barely absorbing a bolt of fire in time, Gorgoth focused all the energy he could spare into shooting more dispelling magic from both palms, widening their routes, filling the air with them. Across from him, Selene did the same. Their magicka levels was draining at alarming rates, but at least for now the King had to make defence his main focus. The Orc looked around to locate Aerin, finding her wriggling out from under Ilend's unmoving body, reaching out for Trueshot. Snarling, the warrior-shaman tore a potion from his belt and swigged it down. Gnaeus, who had been cautiously eyeing up the lich from the shadows, nodded to Mazoga and the pair moved in from different angles to attack simultaneously. A small fireball slammed into the Orc's torso, spinning her around and sending her flying into the wall. Gorgoth felt nothing. He had no time for anything but the fight. He barely reacted when Gnaeus, hit by another fist of air, landed at his feet, slightly dazed.

Across the chamber, the half-elven battlemage had slowly been advancing towards her adversary, her shields negating the attacks that had already proven so devastating to her mundane comrades. Drinking down two potions, she gripped her glaive and sent all the relevant magicka she could think of running through its blade. A massive purple orb started growing in her left hand as she moved closer, eventually stopping a mere two feet from the King. Releasing the spell, thousands of tiny particles of the orb hit the Ayleid before he could counter them. His shields flickered and died. Shouting in celebration of her victory, Selene swung her charged glaive at her opponent's head.

She hit nothing but empty air as he teleported behind her, not only avoiding her blow but frustrating Gorgoth's efforts to hit him quickly when his defences were down. Already throwing up his shields anew, the King grabbed the back of Selene's neck in one hand – thus bypassing all her shields - and sent a pulse of dark magicka through her.

The battlemage was violently ripped apart, her shattered body flying in all directions, bouncing off walls, pillars, comrades. Gorgoth's sole reaction was to take a few steps forward, maintaining his defence and deflecting the blood, bone and armour fragments that were hurtling his way. He would have felt nothing – apart from respect - for Selene even if he hadn't been involved in a life-or-death struggle; death came for everyone, eventually. At least she had died well.

A recovered Gnaeus was far less stoic. "_Bastard!_" he roared, throwing himself at the King with no thought for his own safety. The Ayleid waved a dismissive hand to send him flying upwards into a pillar with devastating force. The crunch of broken bones was clear even above the sound of rushing magicka as the old Imperial dropped limply to the ground. There was a roar and the lich staggered forward, unbalanced. Lurog, his left arm hanging uselessly, raised his mace for a second attack despite seeing the fist full-armed smash do little but bounce off his opponent's magical protection. His remaining strength abruptly left him, and the sudden overwhelming fatigue buckled his knees. The Orc collapsed to the ground. Saliith dropped from the ceiling above him – having finally torn out the last of the icicles pinning him there – and weakly attempted to drag his crippled companion to safety.

Gorgoth's snarl grew more pronounced as he took another step forward. Rivers of sweat were running down his face and body, he only had one potion left, and already the exhaustion of constant usage of complex magicka was eating away at him. But his determination would not be stopped. The air around the lich, right up to his shielded skin, burst into a single sheet of flame so hot that the stones cracked. Unharmed but now sightless, the King roared in frustration and teleported outside the afflicted area, only for his adversary to repeat the spell. Turning his head slightly, he saw what he wanted to see: Aerin was on her feet, sharp eyes narrowed, drawing an arrow to her cheek. She had been watching the lich for the last few minutes, and knew exactly where his head would be. "Aerin,_ wait!_" She looked over at the warrior-shaman, confused until he lurched over and tapped her arrow, wrapping it in a spell that would let it survive the fire. "Now!"

She fired. Her arrow flew straight into the boiling inferno and vanished. Gorgoth maintained the fire until his nose picked up the smell of victory; the stench of ancient flesh roasting. He released all his spells, the exhaustion of his exertions driving him to his knees. In front of him on the cracked stone floor lay a small mound of ash and a scorched arrowhead.

* * *

After so long in an underground city lit only by crystals, the light of the moons felt almost unnatural to Ilend. He would get used to normality again soon enough, however. His fingers unconsciously found the back of his skull before he snatched them away. Gorgoth, having imbibed his last potion, had managed to heal the most serious wounds before falling into the dark depths of unconsciousness. He had been carried by Lurog and Mazoga on the hours-long trudge to the surface and had only woken just before they reached the end of what seemed to be an escape route for the ancient kings. Their remaining wounds had been healed then, but the mental scars would take far longer to deal with.

The Imperial sighed and looked back at their ragged camp. Only Aerin and Gorgoth were still awake, and the warrior-shaman seemed to have slipped into a contemplative mood. Aerin was watching over Saliith - who had lost the most blood and was still very weak – and Gnaeus. The trauma of both having most of his ribcage shattered and losing the woman he seemed to have adopted as a granddaughter had probably cut in half his remaining life expectancy. Grunting, Ilend shook his head and went back to his guard duty.

It was hard not to dwell on Selene's death. He'd lost comrades before, of course – Kvatch still burned in his irregular nightmares – but it never got any easier, not for him. He knew, however, that they had been lucky. The lich-king could have killed most of them with pathetic ease. They would have all died in Miscarcand if not for a powerful Orc's tenacity and the ancient bow of a skilled Bosmer. Ilend grimaced. He had felt helpless at times before, but then at least he'd known that he could be of some use. But against the King of Miscarcand, he might as well have been a child with a wooden sword. But at least that meant that he knew he could have done nothing to prevent his friend's death. He felt none of the guilt that had afflicted him for so long after Kvatch.

Boots crunched on the hard ground next to him, and he shifted on the rock to give the Wood Elf more room as she sat down beside him. "How are you holding up?" he asked, looking sideways at her. The flickering light of the small fire made shadows - cast by her loose strands of hair - dance across her face as she stared into the flames.

Aerin sighed. "I need to accept that she's not coming back." The Bosmer shook her head and turned to meet his eyes. "Right now, I keep thinking she'll walk back up to the camp fire and quietly settle back in, like she'd just gone... hunting or something. But..." She shook her head, managing a weak smile in gratitude as Ilend's comforting arm curled around her shoulders. "It'd be better if we had a body to bury. I think. I can't be sure..." Pressing both hands to her temples, she looked back at Gorgoth. Selene's glaive was currently resting in the crook of the warrior-shaman's elbow.

"Live in the present, not the past," he advised. "You said it yourself, remember? Back then, I was killing myself over Kvatch."

Her expression grew more mournful. "Yeah... but it's hard sometimes... I can't not care about her, ya know?"

Ilend resisted the urge to sigh. He himself was still downcast, but experience meant he was able to at least push that feeling to the back of his mind. But Aerin didn't have his experience. He had to be strong. "Then be happy. She's in Aetherius now. Back with her family. She'll be happy, for sure. She died well. Not a coward's death." He shook her shoulders lightly, a smile spreading over his face. "Besides, you've got yourself to think about. You saved all our arses. Be proud."

The Bosmer returned the smile, albeit more weakly, and wrapped both her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Couldn't have done it without those two mages," she murmured.

He chuckled. For someone of her personality, she was always so quick to credit others above herself. "And the effort of those two mages would have been all in vain if not for you," he reminded her. She nodded silently, her smile slowly fading as silence fell, interrupted only by the surrounding wildlife and gentle snoring from the bedrolls. The Imperial went back to scanning the surrounding forest, attempting not to think about his dead comrade too much. After a few minutes, Aerin raised her head to look him in the eyes.

"Whatever happens... we'll still have each other, right?"

Looking into those blue eyes, he had to stop himself from telling her that neither of them were immune from death, that it was likely that one or both of them would die in this war. Instead, he forced a smile and tried to sound confident. "Yeah. I'll be here."

She smiled gratefully and got to her feet, turning to Gorgoth. "Hey, big guy, could you take the watch?" He looked up at her for a few seconds, considering, before glancing at Ilend. Standing, he nodded, walking over to a good position and easing down to sit with his back against a tree. He rested Selene's glaive across his legs, running a hand up and down the steel. Aerin motioned Ilend over into the warmth of the fire. The Bosmer appeared to be blushing slightly, but that might have just been the heat. "I need some rest, but, eh..." She paused, looking down. "...I don't really want ta sleep without someone beside me. Not after that, ya know?" She looked up again.

The Guildsman nodded. "Yeah. I know what you mean. We could all use each other's company tonight..." He sighed. "Get your bedroll and put it next to mine. I'll join you soon enough. And don't worry about waking me if you need anything."

His friend nodded and turned to get her blankets, but stopped as though remembering something. "Thanks, guardsman," she whispered as she reached up on tiptoes to brush a kiss against his cheek before hurrying off.

Ilend remained still for a few minutes, staring at Miscarcand though seeing nothing in particular. In that city, he had lost a comrade, but escaped with something that would be essential if they were to win the war. Had it been worth it? Undoubtedly. Ever a soldier, the Imperial knew all too well the definition of 'expendable assets'. Selene had died doing her duty. 'Take care of the living, then mourn for the dead' was an old military maxim he'd read in some book he'd found in Cloud Ruler Temple. Now he realised how fitting it was. Touching his cheek, he also realised that, despite losing a sister-in-arms, he might have gained at least something tonight.

* * *

The scream was long, loud and piercing. Writhing on the now completely crimson operating table, barely held down by two of his fellow legionnaires, the soldier bellowed obscenities at anyone who would listen. No one would; the impromptu field hospital was already overflowing, the medics completely overwhelmed. This case was just one of many. Primo Varius wearily heaved his fellow Imperial's amputated leg off the table and slung it over his shoulder, leaving the operating theatre and heading outside. The entrance hall of Fort Sutch looked like a slaughterhouse, with legionnaires with varying wounds laid out on their bedrolls in any available space. Picking his way through them, Primo hardened his heart and ignored the begging for water, food, any relief from the pain. What few soldiers were left were either helping the surgeon save what could be saved or watching for any more of those damned Gates. There was no time to spare on cripples. The harsh reality of war.

Leaving the hall, the Imperial – formerly of the Imperial Watch in the Imperial City, now a legionnaire in the 2nd Century, 4th Cohort, Seventh Legion – left the walls of the fort through the open gates and threw the shattered leg onto a large pile of discarded body parts. Pausing, he leaned back against the wall and sighed. The slightly fresher air outside was welcome, as was the cool of the night, but the smell of the blood – only a little of it his own - on his armour wouldn't leave him until he'd washed it at least five times.

From where he was standing, Primo had an excellent view of the battlefield. Two charred remnants of Oblivion Gates, standing side by side, lay slightly beyond a long, thin line of bodies. Scores of men had fallen; many more had never left Oblivion after volunteering to go in, having weathered the initial shocking onslaught of the daedric titans. It had been early morning when the first Gate was spotted; Centurion Sergius Maro had ordered all three centuries into their standard shield wall formation. They had stayed like that, with shields locked and swords clutched in steady hands, for fifteen minutes. No onslaught, until the second Gate had opened, both suddenly emitting what seemed like an endless horde of Dagon's minions.

The legionnaire sighed again. From what little he'd heard of the attacks on cities, the daedra had always attacked in waves, from a single gate. They had never waited for a second to open before combining forces and attacking in one mass. The Legion had failed to perceive that this war was new to the Daedra as well, failed to perceive that their enemies would learn. As a result, barely fifty armed effectives remained out of what had once been a deadly fighting force of three hundred men. Dagon was marching closer to victory.

"Legionnaire Varius!" Primo jerked upright, standing to attention as Centurion Uriel Quintus, the last remaining officer of that rank, walked up to him. He had no bodyguard; there were no men to spare. The centurion held his plumed helmet under his arm, probably due to the bandage that was wrapped around his head. It would have been healed – along with most of the other casualties – if the detachment's three battlemages had not all died in Oblivion. "Varius, are you fit to ride?" queried Quintus, whose eyes had narrowed. Ever the harsh taskmaster, he hated an idle soldier.

"Yes, Centurion," responded the Imperial, staring straight ahead. His body disagreed with his words; the numerous bruises, the throbbing gash on his upper arm, and the complete physical exhaustion all meant that the only thing he wanted right now was some quality rest. But if duty called, then he would answer, no matter what he wanted personally. The Legion called for nothing less.

"Good. I require you to deliver this message to General Phillida in the Imperial City." Quintus held out a thick letter sealed with the Imperial Dragon seal. "The General needs to know about these new developments," continued the centurion. "Take the best horse you can find and a remount." He turned to head back to the battlements, but checked himself. "Oh, and Varius... don't bother coming back here. We'll only be split up anyway. Too many losses for them to be worth replacing. Report for reassignment to another century as soon as you've delivered that. You'll be needed elsewhere. You fought well today."

Primo saluted his superior's retreating back and headed off in the direction of the Fort Sutch Stables. The three centuries had worked wonders on the fort before the attack, rebuilding much of the crumbling stonework and making it a proud Imperial fortress once more, but the stables were still small and barely housed their small complement of horses. None of the steeds were anything like well-bred warhorses, but they would suffice. The ostler was probably lying on the battlefield with his guts around his ankles, so the legionnaire chose the two horses himself before quickly making a diversion to the barracks. Hopefully, he was managing to hide his relief at his assignment. While proud to serve the Legion in whatever service, he had no desire to stay in this butcher's yard. There would be fighting or other vital duties elsewhere; here, there were only sentries or medics. Or death, if the daedra came again. The Imperial had no aversion to giving his life in the service of the Empire, but he'd rather die in a battle of some importance rather than the slaughter of the remnants of three exhausted centuries.

There was no one in the barracks – as expected, everyone was either on duty, wounded or dead – so he was able to quickly make his way over to his hammock and start stuffing his meagre personal belongings into a burlap sack. He didn't have much; a handful of septims, a few letters from his friends in Leyawiin or the City, his personal dagger and some clothing. The Legion had been his life ever since he joined, and it would be for the foreseeable future; he wouldn't need much more than the standard-issue equipment when away from home. Hastily tying the strings, he slung the bag over his back, re-emerging into the courtyard. The sky to the east was starting to brighten. It would be daylight soon.

"You haven't left already?" muttered Quintus angrily as his subordinate mounted the first horse just outside the gate. "Well, get going. Stop for no one." Primo needed no encouragement; he heeled his mount into a trot, which he maintained until he reached a rise half a mile from the fort. He stopped, looking back. In the growing light, he could just about make out the heaps of dead on the battlefield. His fist slammed into his chest as he saluted his dead brothers-in-arms.

"You won't be forgotten," he snarled. "I swear it."

* * *

**A/N: I'm not entirely happy with some parts of this chapter... mainly because I had to forcibly write through my writer's block until it vanished. Still, it got written, that's what's important. Don't forget to tell me what you think by clicking on that link just below. Your feedback is important; I HAVE to know if I'm doing something wrong in order to correct it.**

**Random fact: Aerin is in Skyrim. He's a male Imperial (I think he's Imperial, at least...). Slightly disturbing... I'd always assumed it was a female-only Bosmeri name. Ah, well, you learn something new every day... Also, I should note that I'm once again away for the weekend, so any review replies will be delayed. Don't let that stop you from leaving a review, though...**


	38. Matters of Honour

**A/N: And in the midst of hundreds of new Skyrim fics, this one keeps going... hopefully, my new-found determination will reduce update times further. Always remember to keep up the reviews: they can only help me.**

**Random Reader: Indeed, Gnaeus against the lich IS comparable with a child attacking a grown man. In fact, he's more of a buzzing fly, a mere irritant. Hmm... Gorgoth's great-grandson, eh? Gorgoth himself would disapprove of his descendant, methinks, but a lot has changed in 200 years...**

**Simple Thought: Well, Skyrim HAS impacted on my writing times recently, but it's not as significant now, as I've kicked the initial addiction. Yes, you're right; some skeletons might be weak, but these skeletons have Ayleid magic in them. They're hardly going to be brittle.**

**Underpaid Critic: I do see what you mean, but for me personally, Selene would have been hard to develop more. I can see how I could have done it, but... killing her was still fitting, and she'd had long enough. Still, there's more than enough characters ripe for 'plucking' now.**

**Rokibfd: Ah, computer problems... I can empathise. Yes, not many of them are going to survive. That said, Ilend's lack of magical talent won't count against him; most of the Blades are mundane, and they're equally well-equipped to take on daedra. They 'die' to swords as well as magic... Hmm... I see what you mean about 'shock', but 'electricty' is even worse, as it doesn't exist as we know it in Tamriel (the Dwemer might have had steam engines, but they're long gone and their knowledge with them) (I've since replaced it with 'lightning'). And as for Aerin... she's always like that. It takes a lot for her to be serious about much.**

**Mephala's Sibling: Happy Birthday. ;)**

**Anyhow, thanks to everyone who reviewed. They are, as always, much appreciated and valued. Keep it up, and here's your latest chapter...**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-eight: Matters of Honour**

The fire was crackling in the large stone hearth in the Great Hall of Cloud Ruler Temple, filling half the hall with its warmth. Callia was glad for the heat; the snow was coming down thick and fast outside. Fortunately, she'd been assigned to guard Martin today, and as the heir was relaxing next to the fire after a session of translation all she had to do was stand a few feet away from his chair and remain watchful. Guarding the Emperor had always been an honour, but now her compatriots, standing frozen outside, had all the more reasons to be envious.

It was ten days since Gorgoth had left for Miscarcand, and four days since the Knight Sister had been deemed fit for duty. Now the only mark of her ordeal was a small, jagged scar just beneath her left breast; the arrow had been in too long for the healing to completely repair the skin. While physically fine, however, questions continued to gnaw at her in every waking moment, questions that could not yet be answered. She owed Gorgoth her life, yet she hated him with every fibre of her being. But how could she kill him, even after the crisis, if she was so obliged to him? She was desperately hoping that the Orc's own strange sense of honour would work in her favour, but until she talked to him, she'd remain in this horrendous suspense.

"Callia?" The Breton instantly took a few steps forward and snapped to attention. "Take a seat." She nodded and slowly sat down in the armchair next to Martin's, letting herself relax as much as she dared. With ten other Blades in the Great Hall, high alertness wasn't required quite so much. "How are you feeling?" inquired the heir, looking sideways at her with a curious expression.

"Perfectly well, sire," replied the Blade, frowning uncertainly. He'd asked this question of her every day since she'd woken, and none of her answers ever seemed to satisfy him. "If I didn't feel up to anything I'd have reported as unfit for duty. But I'm fine."

He frowned, rubbing his chin. Fine wrinkles had appeared at the corners of his eyes, and he didn't look as youthful as he had when he'd first arrived at the Temple. The Xarxes and the stress of his sudden new situation was clearly taking its toll. Those brilliant blue eyes, however, were as sharp as ever as he met her querying gaze. "The thing is, Callia..." He sighed. "You barely eat these days. What sleep you do get is restless. You're getting thinner, and you look constantly tired. I wouldn't call that 'perfectly well'. What's troubling you?"

The Knight Sister grunted. He was right, of course; fatigue was swiftly becoming her constant companion. Not only did she have her duty, but she'd made her training with Lathar even more intensive recently, and combined with a lack of sleep and appetite, her body was starting to rebel. But the distraction in her mind in the shape of a massive warrior-shaman refused to let her rest no matter how much she tried to ignore him. Her duties kept her out of action, and it was that idleness that allowed her mind to dwell on those damaging thoughts. Martin's gaze had her pinned; she had to be honest. At least she trusted him. "It's Gorgoth," she grunted. "I owe him my life."

Nodding slightly, the Imperial's gaze turned to the fire. He knew about their history, of course; apparently, Jauffre had found him within minutes of hearing it from the Orc. "I cannot speak for him, Callia, but I do trust him," he told her. "It might help if you were to do the same. And talk to him. He might be able to help you. He is a... hard man to understand."

She snorted, almost saying something impertinent before her companion's status checked her tongue. "You are right, of course," she said. "I know I can at least try to resolve this when he gets back. But the waiting is... it's hard." Reaching up, the Breton removed her helmet, letting her brown hair fall freely down to her shoulder blades. It was against regulations, but she was starting to feel suffocated.

"They'll be back soon." Martin's words were truer than he realised; within a few minutes, the doors had banged open. The freezing gust of wind brought snow and cold into the warmth of the hall, chilling the air considerably before the draught was eliminated. Callia instantly leapt to her feet as Gorgoth and Lurog marched the length of the Great Hall, intent on the heir, who had also risen. What appeared to be a foot-long splinter of crystal glowed faintly in the warrior-shaman's hand as he held it out.

"The Great Welkynd Stone of Miscarcand," he announced as the Imperial took it from his fist, studying it intently. Ignoring the artefact – others would decide if it was valid and how to use it, not her – Callia stared at the massive Orc. He was wearing Akaviri-styled plate armour now, presumably to replace his previous battered suit of plain steel. His green face, however, remained the same; cold and impenetrable. His yellow eyes flickered towards her briefly before returning to Martin. "Will it work?"

The Imperial nodded distractedly, still poring over the crystal. "If Dagon is to be believed, then this will be fine," he muttered, finally tearing his gaze away and smiling up at the Knight Brother. "You've done well," he praised. "All of you. Miscarcand could not have been an easy conquest." His smile slipped as he noticed something for the first time. Selene's glaive was clutched in the Orc's free hand as he rested the haft against the floor. "What..."

"As you said, not an easy conquest. The price was paid in blood. Selene died honourably, fighting for the cause to her last breath." Gorgoth might have been talking about the weather for all the emotion showing on that hard face. Even his deep voice was unchanged.

Martin sighed heavily, gritting his teeth as he slowly sat back down in his chair. The Great Hall was now silent save for the fire. "Are there any other casualties?" Callia couldn't see his face, and his voice was well-controlled; no hint of any inner turmoil that might exist. As for herself, she regretted the death of such a fine battlemage, but she had barely known the half-elf. Her death couldn't touch her as it could touch the heir, who had spent hours at a time alone with her during translation.

The warrior-shaman shook his head. "None of us escaped unscathed – I have never faced an opponent who wielded such power – but the rest of us are all alive and fit for battle." Beside him, Lurog nodded emphatically; the warrior would always be up for anything. He, too, seemed unfazed by Selene's death.

"I should have-" The Imperial was cut off by Gorgoth's fist slamming down on the arm of his chair as the Orc pushed his face to within two feet of the ex-priest's.

"Do not regret _anything_, Martin," he snarled, his eyes chips of yellow ice. "You sent us there fully prepared, well-equipped, and powerful enough to overcome anything that stood before us. There was nothing more you could have done. There are always going to be casualties in war. Look to the future and the present, not the past. Do not dwell on the dead when you have the living to care for." The Orc straightened. "You still have translation to take care of," he reminded. "Remain focused." He slammed his fist to his heart in an inch-perfect salute before turning and marching off towards the canteen, the glaive in his hand tapping on the stone floor at every step. Lurog nodded respectfully before following him.

Callia stared at the Knight Brother's retreating back until the adjoining door swung shut behind him, jolting her back to her duty. She glanced down at her charge to find him rubbing his chin absent-mindedly as he stared into the fire. Putting her helmet back on, she moved to stand a few feet behind his chair, guessing that he would want what little privacy she could offer. Instead, he beckoned her forward again. Somewhat self-consciously positioning herself at his elbow, she realised that he had lost many more friends and acquaintances at Kvatch, many of whom had been lot closer to him than Selene had been. Losing just one more would not be... the Breton tried to imagine it, but failed. People dealt with loss in different ways. She could not assume anything. Her future Emperor's voice broke through her thoughts. "I know you wish to talk to him. Go on." His tone was slightly more restrained than usual.

It was only her professional reserve that kept her jaw from dropping. "I can't desert my post, Sire, not when I'm your bodyguard," she managed to say. "Not only would I be-"

"Go." He turned to look her in the eyes. There was a grim, hard, assertive edge to his expression, one that had been seen more increasingly as he grew more used to his role as Emperor-to-be. "That is an order."

She was still tempted to protest, but an order was an order, and there was no higher authority than Martin in Cloud Ruler Temple. Instead, she nodded and briskly set off towards the canteen, leaving Martin to his thoughts. There was hardly going to be a successful attempt on his life with over ten off-duty Blades in the Great Hall.

Gorgoth and Lurog were easy to spot, two mountains of steel and green flesh among the smaller, paler-skinned inhabitants of the Temple. They were busily chewing through small mounds of food that covered their plates, eating as though they'd been starved despite the Breton knowing that Aerin could easily hunt enough to sustain all of them. The warrior-shaman glanced up as Callia marched over, and nodded slowly as though he understood why she was here. "I need to talk to you," she informed him, stopping next to him and folding her arms. "In private."

The Orc glanced back at his plate. "Go and wait in my quarters," he ordered. "I'll be with you when I've finished eating." He grabbed two rashers of bacon and stuffed them into his mouth, ignoring her and leaving her with a view of the side of his head as his powerful teeth got to work. She grunted and reluctantly dragged herself away, heading off towards his quarters in the Royal Wing.

Predictably, she was intercepted by an officer the second she entered the courtyard, where the wind and snow were still battering the temple. "Callia, aren't you Martin's bodyguard today?"

The Breton spun, barely remembering to salute before answering. "Yes, but he ordered me to take care of some personal business, Glen- Captain Varsis." Glenroy's recent promotion – for a variety of reasons, including personal valour, achievement in the face of adversity, and long service with distinction – was taking some getting used to. It was still slightly odd seeing him in the more elaborate armour of a Knight Captain.

He smiled slightly and waved for her to relax. "Well, I'm sure he has his reasons," he grunted, his smile slipping slightly. "Carry on. I'll just make sure he's never alone." The Imperial nodded in response to her salute and walked off, shielding the uncovered part of his face from the wind with his hand. His subordinate turned and hurried into the Royal Wing, brushing off the snow that had already started to settle on her shoulders and helmet.

Gorgoth's door was unlocked – he had little of value inside, and trusted that no Blade would resort to petty thievery – so Callia slumped down in an armchair next to the table in the middle of the outer room, placing her helmet and gauntlets on the table before running her fingers through her hair. Now that the Orc was finally back, the confused mixture of emotions in the deep recesses of her mind had manifested themselves in a tight, nervous knot in her stomach. She clasped her hands firmly together in her lap to stop them from fiddling with everything within reach and attempted to content herself by looking around the room. Its inhabitant had barely changed it; the only addition were some dents in the furniture and some mud on the carpets. Interestingly, there was also a sealed note pinned to the bedroom door by a dagger. The Breton was curious, but, remembering that he was her Knight Brother, restrained herself from prying even further into his life.

The minutes were stretching out agonisingly – _how long does it take for an Orc to eat some bacon?_ - before the door banged open and swiftly shut again behind the warrior-shaman as he walked in. She immediately leapt to her feet and stood stiffly as he passed an analytical eye over her while placing his gauntlets on the table beside hers. "It is good to see you made a full recovery," he remarked, folding his arms.

Her lip curled. "Why would you care?"

"Because you are a valuable warrior for the cause. Your loss would not be celebrated by any of us."

She should have seen that response coming. Angrily shaking her head and taking a step forward, she glared up into his eyes. "You saved my life." He nodded, those emotionless cold eyes returning her stare. The Breton grimaced. "Thank you." She'd had to force the words out, but at least they were genuine; she was truly thankful to the Orc for saving her life. Gorgoth nodded again, knowing that she had more to say. "I am in your debt," she muttered through gritted teeth, though her glare was more than enough to show him that she was far from happy about that, should he need such a reminder.

The Orc turned and walked slowly over to the window, leaning on the sill and looking out. "Yes, you owe me your life," he confirmed. "But..." He shook his head before turning back to look at her. "That should not preclude any attempt at vengeance on your part after the Oblivion Crisis is over."

Callia frowned. "I can't kill someone I owe my life to," she growled. "I doubt even _you_ could do that. Even _you_ have some sense of honour, for all the good it does others."

"I have done that." The Breton hissed in frustration and grabbed a clump of her hair in frustration. Of course he would have done something like that. Ignoring her evident displeasure, he continued. "When I was six, I fell into a large pond. I would have drowned, if an Orc named Orakh gro-Matuk had not risked his own life to save me. There was no doubt that I owed him my life." Gorgoth started pacing the length of the room, his deep voice never faltering. "Years later, however, I tortured him to death. He was in agony for several hours before he succumbed. I was looking into his eyes, and I felt nothing but contempt. I never felt any regret. I owed him my life, but that did not signify." The warrior-shaman turned and looked her in the eyes. She recoiled from that gaze; his eyes were frozen fire. "He had raped and tortured my mother to death in front of me. So, Callia..." He walked forward, stopping a mere foot from her and placing a hand on her shoulder. "Your situation is identical to how mine was."

It took her some time to formulate a response while barely stopping herself from backing away from his touch. She was no coward. "You are not me," she muttered, though she was realising the wisdom in the Orc's words. His saving of her life had been completely unconnected to his murder of her mother; he had not done it to try to make amends, and she knew that he would never feel remorse for what he'd done. "But I still feel obliged to you."

"Forget about it," replied Gorgoth, waving a dismissive hand. "You are no longer under any obligation to me. I was merely saving the life of a comrade in battle. I have done it dozens of times. Just ask Lurog; he owes me his life several times over, yet he is under no obligation. It is not something that often arises between true brothers of battle."

She grunted and turned away from him, emulating his earlier action by leaning on the windowsill, looking out. Her honour demanded that she oblige anyone who did her such a service, but if he was dismissing that... "You still don't object to me killing you after this war is over?" An unusual question, but her Knight Brother was an unusual Orc.

"You can make an attempt on my life the second Martin no longer requires my services. Always remember that _you_ will never be in my debt. Unless you want to be."

Finally, his message sunk in, and the dread, despair and other mixed feelings that had been tearing at her for the last week dissipated. The Breton barely stopped herself from slumping as overwhelming relief almost overcame her. She didn't have to betray her family's memory. A smile spread over her face as she looked out into the snowstorm. Gorgoth left her be, starting to remove his armour. The sound of his actions replaced her smile with a frown. She was feeling not only relief, but gratitude. Gratitude towards the Orc she hated. He had done her a service, she realised. Without his release, she would have been forced to do as he asked. To her horror, she found herself respecting him; she would have been hesitant to do anything like what he'd done, if their roles had been reversed.

Spinning from the window, she found herself face to face with the warrior-shaman. The look he gave her was completely unreadable, but Callia somehow knew that he was fully aware of her increasingly conflicting opinions of him. "I still despise you," she whispered. It was true; she would hate him until one of them was dead. But that hatred would not stop the growing respect and trust she found herself reluctantly feeling for her comrade-in-arms.

"Of course you do," he responded, undoing one final strap before removing his cuirass. "I would expect nothing else." She wrinkled her nose at the smell of the old sweat deeply ingrained in his fur vest. As he removed that as well – clearly preparing for sleep, as the day was drawing to an end – the Breton noticed a painful-looking scar running across his stomach before it disappeared into his greaves.

"How did you get that?" she inquired. She should have been getting back to Martin – her questions had been answered – but her curiosity kept her there as Gorgoth sat down to remove his boots.

"The same man who was responsible for that scar near your heart," he replied, pointing at her chest. "The only difference is that he gave me mine personally." The Orc shoved his boots out of the way and started loosening his greaves. "It left a scar because I could not fully heal it; Sinweaver is truly a malevolent weapon. Dark death indeed..." the last three words were delivered in an undertone, as though he was talking to herself.

Callia nodded then started edging towards the door. "I should be getting back to Martin." He nodded and waved her away. The Breton swiftly marched to the door and left the room. Predictably, the Royal Wing was still empty, so she hurried off to find the heir, with a mind that was far more clear and positive than when she'd woken that morning.

* * *

Gorgoth watched the door close behind his Knight Sister before going back to removing his greaves. Finding heavy plate armour that actually fit him had been a rare stroke of luck, and it was just as high quality as Gin-Wulm's suit, which had served him well. Neither could compare to his Orcish battle plate, of course, but the armour of the Blades would suffice for now. Finally removing the last of the elaborate steel, his thoughts returned to the Breton who'd just left him. He respected her for her honour and devotion to her cause, to the extent of welcoming her eventual challenge. But he probably never would have any desire to kill her. The world needed more women like Callia Petit; strong, honourable, and determined, not to mention a good fighter. It was ironic that he thought so highly of someone who would attempt to kill him at the earliest opportunity.

Putting her out of his mind, the warrior-shaman rose and walked over to his bedroom door, wrenching the small dagger out of the wood and taking the note it had pinned. The seal was plain, and any number of people could be writing him letters, so he opened it immediately and conjured a few magical lights, spreading them around the room to cast more than enough illumination.

_Gorgoth,_

_No leads on the Blackwood company yet – no solid leads, anyhow. Those sodding weasels are hard to pin down. But my digging has uncovered something which could wipe some of the crap off the Guild's much-mocked reputation._

_A while back, I took twenty good men – Vitellus Donton was one of them – to kill Azani Blackheart and take his sword, Sinweaver, to a mage, Argoth. We failed. I barely got of there alive, and I saw that Redguard goat-humper kill Vitellus himself. Next thing we know, the Company has waltzed in there and done what I couldn't do with twenty of our best fighters. Then Argoth shows up dead, with Sinweaver missing. It doesn't take a shit-for-brains cretin to work out what happened._

_I've located Blackheart, but he's got a sizeable army. I'll have a few men with me, but I still need your help. Get your green arse down to the Drunken Dragon Inn, double-time. Bring a few reliable men with you if you can. We'll think up a plan when we meet. Azura knows we need one. Now get moving, boot._

_Oreyn_

The Orc grunted as he lowered the letter, clenching his fist around it, feeling the paper crumple against his skin. Burzukh would be with Azani; a meeting was now inevitable. He'd always known it would happen, but he had never anticipated it happening this quickly. Keeping the letter – it could be of use – he strode over to his bed and started pulling his trousers off, his mind starting to work. Modryn had mentioned bringing a few reliable men. Gorgoth could do better.

* * *

A shattered ribcage, perforated ribs and several other fractures were severe injuries for an old man, and Gnaeus hadn't woken until they were two days away from Miscarcand. Even so, he'd still had time to reflect on the death of the only person who had been remotely close to him for nearly four decades. He felt older now, not only because of the crippling trauma of his wounds, but because now he truly had nothing left to live for, if he ever had in the first place. There was no grief in him – hard experience had long ago taught him that grief was completely pointless – but he knew it would now be impossible for him to find a sense of purpose that didn't involve fighting. His life would consist of mere existence from battle to battle as he attempted to go down fighting, rather than end his life dribbling and senseless like so many men his age. He'd do what he could to help against Dagon, but all he wanted now was the eternal, well-deserved rest that Aetherius offered.

The ex-hermit was resting, for the moment, in one of the more comfortable armchairs in one of the communal rooms of the Temple. He was alone apart from Lurog, sitting just as quietly in the far corner with his eyes closed. The Orc might well have been asleep, save for the lack of snoring. Silence was good for thought, but the Imperial did not care for thought at the moment. He wanted action. The waiting irritated him.

Saliith walked in, dumping himself down in a nearby chair and loosening his wet armour, exhaling heavily. "Bloody freezing out there," he growled, glaring at the small fire as though willing it to grow hotter. "It's times like this that I miss Black Marsh."

"Why don't you crawl back there?" snorted Gnaeus derisively. Never one for civility, his impatience for action and increasingly bad mood made him even less desirable for conversation.

"Because unlike you, _old man_, I still have a purpose here. _I_ can still fight and make a difference, unlike some people who don't know when to retire." The Grand Champion's dislike for him was evident, but that was to be expected; the Imperial never had been anything other than caustic his entire life.

"Retire?" Gnaeus swiftly cut his hash laugh short. "I've _had_ my retirement, lizard-rat. Thirty-five years of sitting on my wrinkly arse on a barren rock, doing nothing. Now, finally, this upstart of a Daedra has come along and forced me back into the real world."

Saliith rolled his eyes, rising to his feet and unbuckling his sword belt. "Unfortunately for the rest of us," he muttered. "If you're going to die, at least do it quietly."

"So that everyone can quietly ignore my death?" growled the ex-hermit. "I'd rather Dagon noticed that I'd created a pile of his minions around me before I finally died."

"In your dreams, old man," snorted the Green Tornado. He threw his sword belt onto the chair behind him and turned to start unbuckling his scale armour, only to find a calloused fist slamming into his face. Staggering back from both the force of the blow and the shock, he was momentarily powerless to respond as Gnaeus, seething with irrational anger, swept his legs from under him and punched him again, sending him falling back into his seat.

"What the f-" Saliith's snarl was cut short as the Imperial leapt on top of him, forcing his knee into the Argonian's ribcage and repeatedly pounding his fists into his face, ignoring the blood that swiftly started to fly from his knuckles as the scales cut into them. These repeated vicious attacks were stopped as the lizard lashed out with both feet, kicking the ex-hermit off in with such force that he flew across the room, colliding with another chair. Both recovered within seconds, not even wasting time on rational thought before they were exchanging blows again.

Gnaeus had always known that he stood no chance against the far stronger, faster, younger Grand Champion, but at least he felt that he was accomplishing something as he felt the Argonian recoil against his attacks. Better than sitting around and complaining. Better than thinking. A spin-kick slammed into his ribcage, staggering him and expelling most of the air in his lungs. His opponent seized the opportunity and punched him twice in the stomach before delivering a stunning uppercut that laid the Imperial flat on his back, dazed and disorientated. Saliith promptly knelt astride him and started systematically pummelling his face before two thick, green arms wrapped around his torso and dragged him away.

"I'd say that's enough for the both of you," growled Lurog as he restrained the furious lizard. "Calm down, you fool. You wouldn't want to kill him."

"You might be mistaken," snarled Saliith, but he stopped resisting and instead wiped away a trickle of blood from a cut just above his eye. The Orc turned and shoved him away before looking down and offering a hand to the prostrate ex-hermit. Gnaeus – half-blinded by blood in his eyes - grunted and took it, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet, almost staggering as the pain of a cracked rib made itself known. Rubbing a hand over his face, he found several gashes and a broken nose; he'd undoubtedly came off worse, as he'd always expected. But he'd needed that.

Lurog, his arms folded, was looking at him with something that might have been understanding in those yellow eyes. Saliith had long since grabbed his sword belt and left. "If you want to die honourably, you could go and find the closest Oblivion Gate," suggested the Orc. "There's sure to be one opening soon around Bruma, if the Guard is to be believed."

The Imperial shook his head, considering a healing potion but dismissing the idea. He could deal with the effects of pugilism. "I'd rather not get slaughtered," he muttered. "No, when I die, I want it to be in a battle where I've made a real difference." He bent double and spat a large gob of blood onto the stone floor.

"You'll get your chance," responded the warrior, watching him dispassionately. "We're in one of the biggest wars I've known. There'll be a lot of battle before this is over. I'm sure of it." An eager gleam entered the Orc's eyes. "I'm sure of it."

* * *

If the sound of his outer door creaking open wasn't enough to wake Gorgoth, the sound of the magical alarm he'd set – audible only to him – made sure that he was awake and alert within seconds of the intruder's entry. Casting two quick spells of life detection and night vision, he lay still, appearing asleep. The door to his bedroom slowly swung open then shut, and the intruder silently padded over the floor to his bed. Dispelling his two spells, the warrior-shaman offered only a grunt in response as she slid under the blanket, pressing her naked body against his back.

"You know I'll never love you, Mazoga," he told her as she started to unbraid his hair. It was true; even if he did love her, he'd never let himself feel that love, let alone display it. She merely snorted and continued to work, her fingers releasing his hair, the silky black mane spreading down his back.

"Doesn't mean we can't get some enjoyment," she muttered, wrapping her arms around his chest and rubbing slowly against his back. He lay completely still, ignoring both her and the uncontrollable throbbing in his groin. "Come on, Gorgoth," she growled, growing more insistent. "At least do this much. It's not like that bloody 'emotional armour' of yours will ever break, even now. At least do _something_ for me."

She was right. His actions now would not weaken him unless he allowed them to. He turned around and took her.

* * *

Morning brought an end to the snow, and when Ilend ventured out the sun – still hovering just over the Jeralls – was burning brightly in a near-cloudless sky. Even the wind had dropped, but the temperature was still well below freezing, and snow lay knee-depth on the ground everywhere, save for where the on-duty Blades had carved trails. Aerin had taken one look at the conditions and swiftly retreated back inside the East Barracks, so Ilend was left alone to contemplate Bruma and its surroundings. The city had withstood three Oblivion Gates now, and the Guard was still at full fighting strength, but it would need reinforcements, and soon. Fortunately, word had come from some other cities; several had promised aid.

It wasn't just the cities; the Imperial was sure that his fellow Guildsmen would come to aid Bruma, once the nature of the threat became clear. He'd known that Gorgoth had some clout in the Guild – he was a Warder, if Ilend remembered correctly - though lately he had been quiet concerning Guild matters. The swordsman himself was only a Protector, but he was certain that it would only need a good word in Ah-Malz's ear to get most of the Skingrad branch hurrying up to Bruma. Yes, the city would have the aid it needed. Of that, he was confident.

He heard boots crunching slowly up towards him, but didn't turn until a polite cough reached his ears. The Guildsman turned to greet Jauffre, who had thrown a thick cloak on over his armour. He was looking older with every passing day now, but there was still life in those brown eyes. "Are you seeing this through to the end?" he queried, stepping up to join the Imperial in leaning on the battlements.

Ilend nodded. "Of course," he replied. "Dagon's going to pay for Kvatch. I'll be here to see to that. You can count on me."

"Spoken like a true Blade, yet you are only a mercenary. I wonder..." The wizened Breton turned to face his companion. "Do you want to join the Blades?"

Raising an eyebrow, the Guildsman did not reply at once. Instead, he scratched his chin, gazing in the direction of White Gold Tower. The delay was merely a show of politeness; he knew that he was never going to desert the Guild, not even now. He'd turned down a similar offer from Dion to join the Skingrad Guard, and while serving the Emperor directly as a Blade was a great honour, it wouldn't suit him. He preferred having at least some freedom, rather than being chained to a fortress or wherever the Emperor was. To his knowledge, the Blades didn't get much leave. "Thanks for the offer, Jauffre," he started, speaking carefully. He had no desire to be turned out of the stronghold, which the Blades had every right to do. "Being a Blade would be a great honour. But I feel that I would be able to serve the Emperor's interests better as a mercenary under his charter, rather than as a personal bodyguard. The Guild is just... more attractive to me."

The Grandmaster of the Blades held his gaze for several moments before nodding. "I understand. The way of the Blades is not for everyone." He nodded civilly. "I wish you good fortune in whatever you do."

"And you, Jauffre. Should the Blades ever need my services, all you have to do is let me know." He returned the Breton's nod and turned to admire the view again. The crunch of receding footsteps faded away, leaving him alone in contemplative silence once more.

It didn't take long for another pair of boots to break that silence as Aerin finally decided to join him, swathed in the thick brown cloak she normally wore every time they went north of Chorrol. "You look deep in thought, guardsman," she observed, pulling her hood back slightly to reveal her face as she relaxed, leaning on the battlements beside him.

"That's because I _am_ deep in thought, you cold-hating treehugger," he replied, smirking. He himself was wearing nothing over his chainmail, and while he was cold, the thick clothing he was wearing underneath was more than enough to keep him comfortable. "I just turned down an offer to join the Blades, in fact."

Her eyes widened as she looked up at him. "Why would you ever do a thing like _that_? I'd have thought it'd be what ya always wanted?"

Ilend shook his head. "I've always wanted the less complicated things, myself," he claimed. "The Blades could get a lot more complex than I liked, and much more... sneaky. I don't like sneaking, or deception, except when it's needed. In a city guard, you've got uncomplicated duties. In the Guild, the contracts can get interesting, but never anything like the Blades. Besides, I've always felt loyal to a city. I like being provincial."

She arched an eyebrow. "Never would have thought it. Didn't ya always hate the boredom of guard duty?"

"Yes, but Blades duty would be more of the same a lot of the time. You're just meant to feel more honoured or more important. Well, for me, there's not much greater honour than the respect of my kinsmen. That's what I need, not an Akaviri katana." The Imperial looked sideways at his companion. "Besides, I wouldn't get much leave. And I know you'd never join the Blades, so..." He shrugged. "Almost a no-brainer." Her warm smile made him all the more convinced that his decision was the right one.

"Well, it's good ta know that ya won't be locked away in some snowed-in fort or a palace for most of the year, at least," she said, sounding thankful as she clasped her hands together behind her back. "And you're right; Masser and Secunda will be bright pink before Jauffre lets me into the Blades, even if I wanted ta bore myself ta death. So..." She smiled and nudged him gently. "Good choice, guardsman."

"You know, Aerin, I-" Ilend cut off at the sound of heavy boots ploughing through the snow towards them, and both of them turned to see Gorgoth and Mazoga easily making their way through the snow to lean on the wall beside them. Both were wearing their armour, which in Mazoga's case was looking decidedly unhealthy; the ebony plate was very high quality, but a large portion near her right shoulder was scorched, and large dents perforated the metal. Even so, it would still hold up admirably in battle. The Orc was looking less surly than usual; there was none of the usual resentment in her gaze as it rested on her larger comrade. Aerin opened her mouth – to make some comment on her temperament, no doubt – but she was cut off by the warrior-shaman.

"Are you aware of recent events in the Guild?" he asked. In contrast to his companion's changed attitude, Gorgoth was the same as ever, giving nothing away through his expressions or voice as he leaned on the battlements.

"I heard a bit when we passed through Skingrad, but... not much," admitted the Imperial, frowning. "I think Donton might have lost her second son, or something similar... I couldn't be sure." He glanced in his comrade's direction. "Why?"

"You are right. Viranus Donton was killed. Modryn Oreyn and myself were expelled because we were apparently responsible for his death." The Orc's face was completely emotionless, but Ilend made up for the lack of expression by jerking his head around, disbelief evident in his features. Gorgoth, expelled? It couldn't be possible; he was exactly what the Guild needed. The ex-Guildsman dismissed his questions with a wave of his hand and continued. "We were innocent, of course. The Blackwood Company murdered Viranus and his squad in cold blood. You know of the Blackwood Company?"

Yes, he knew of them. The mere thought of those treacherous, backstabbing blackguards angered Ilend. Ah-Malz always had been vocal about them; he'd been in Black Marsh when their expedition had failed, but failed to specify what had happened, only expressing an extreme loathing of anyone and anything connected to the Company. "Bastards," he snarled, his face contorting. "And Donton kicked _you_ out? You and Oreyn, two of the best mer in the Guild?" He shook his head in disbelief. He and most of the Guild knew that the Guildmaster's grip had been loosening, but to such an extent...

"She is incompetent. But Oreyn and me can still help the Guild, even in exile. Read this." The swordsman took the proffered crumpled parchment and smoothed it out, skimming through it as the curious Aerin rose on tiptoes to attempt read over his shoulder. Still finding herself too short, she peered around his elbow instead.

"Azani Blackheart? Ain't he the bloke that gave you that scar?" inquired the Bosmer, looking up at Gorgoth. He nodded. "It says ya can bring a few reliable men," she observed, arching an eyebrow. "I take it that means I can come as well?"

"You can. Lurog is coming; not only is this personal for him as well, but he knows the area. Ilend, as a Guildsman, I felt obliged to inform you of the situation."

"Count me in," replied the Imperial, handing the letter back. "You know I'm up for anything to help the Guild. It's my home now." He glanced sideways at Aerin. "I guess that means you're coming too." She gave him a slightly withering look that clearly meant _what did you expect?_

"Good. I could use some good fighters at my back. Now, as for you..." The Orc turned to Mazoga, only for her to shove a thick finger into his chest.

"The only way I'm staying here is if you chain me up in the dungeons," she told him, a fierce light simmering in her yellow eyes as though she was daring him to deny her. "I'm coming with you, whether you like it nor not." Ilend smirked and exchanged an amused glance with Aerin.

"I knew you would say that. All right, you're coming. I'll see if I can get a few of the Blades interested. Malacath knows they hate Blackheart enough." That was true; ever since Callia had almost died, several Blades had been overheard muttering about the inactivity concerning the bandit warlord, particularly as they knew his location. Gorgoth stepped back, his gaze taking in all three of them. "We leave after lunch. Stock up on everything you need."

"Uh, one thing, big guy," started Aerin, taking a few steps forward. "Ya might want ta take Gnaeus or Saliith with ya. They might kill each other if left cooped up in here alone." She had a point; only a blind man could have failed to notice the old ex-hermit's battered state last night, before the resident battlemage – an Imperial named Lucius Varo – had healed him despite his protests.

The Orc shook his head. "From what I could tell, Gnaeus was stocking up for an expedition to anywhere nearby that might give him a good fight. It's the best thing for him right now. We'll leave him be." He turned and crunched off across the courtyard in the direction of the canteen, Mazoga falling in beside him.

"They make an odd couple, don't ya think?" asked Aerin, folding her arms and grinning at the retreating backs of the two warriors.

Ilend snorted. "I think just about any romance involving Gorgoth will be an odd one," he remarked. Even though he was convinced that the two of them were in love, it still felt surreal every time he thought about it. He shook his head and turned back to Aerin, who had pulled her hood back as the sun warmed the air. "Me, I prefer the simpler things in life."

"I believe ya might have mentioned that a couple of times already, guardsman," she chuckled, playfully poking him in the chest. "But I really hope ya weren't calling me simple..." she tried to adopt a serious look, but her smirk ruined it.

"Well, you're less complicated than a certain emotionally-armoured weakness-hating warrior-shaman, at least," replied Ilend wryly. "In fact, I'd say you're his exact opposite. And you know they say opposites attract..." He laughed as she hissed furiously and attempted to punch him in the ribs only to find that she had to cling to him for support as she descended into paroxysms of glee.

"You're an evil bastard, guardsman," she snorted, finally regaining the ability to speak. The look she gave him indicated that he was probably in for a merciless tickling the next time he asked for a massage. Fortunately, his muscles had been far less tight recently. Odd, considering all the fighting they'd been doing. He was feeling more relaxed these days, however, and he was almost certain that the Bosmer currently leaning on him had something to do with that.

"You know, Aerin..." His expression turned serious as he attempted to put his thoughts into words. Before he could find any suitable speech – he never had been good with complicated talking – their relative privacy was dispelled by the arrival of Lurog on their section of the wall. _Does everyone have to stop just here to admire the bloody landscape right __now_? Ilend asked himself, careful to keep his surly thoughts from his face. It was never wise to anger an Orc who was not only an excellent warrior but a 'brother of battle' to the Hero of Kvatch. The Imperial didn't know exactly what the term meant – Orcs could be surprisingly complicated elves sometimes - but he could have a fair stab at guessing.

"Ya look worried, Lurog," observed Aerin, frowning as she looked up at the Orc. She hadn't thought up a nickname for him yet.

"I am worried," confirmed the warrior, leaning on the wall and sighing slightly as he looked down towards Bruma. "Worried for Gorgoth and this upcoming battle."

The Bosmer spluttered incredulously, leaving Ilend to ask the question that she was thinking of. "Worried for _him_? Surely he can handle himself." He'd seen Gorgoth mow down scores of skilled enemy combatants, seen him rampage through Oblivion, killing daedra after daedra, seen him kill an ancient lich-king. In his opinion, the warrior-shaman was as close to invulnerability as one could get.

"His sense of honour, while a source of strength and nothing less than what I'd expect, is also a weakness of sorts," countered Lurog, still looking out into the distance. "He will insist on facing Azani Blackheart in single combat. I recall the last time they met." He sighed. "That is the closest I have ever come to seeing my brother of battle die. I hope never to see something similar again."

"But... surely he can take on Blackheart and win?" queried Aerin, frowning. "I mean, he wouldn't be going if he couldn't."

The Orc shook his head. "I truly do not know," he grunted. "Their last battle involved no magic, and Gorgoth was wearing only his boiled leather, only the first layer of his battle armour. Things will be different this time. Both will bring their magic into play." His gaze dropped to the ice-encrusted stone beneath his fists. "And Burzukh will be there. Malacath's blood, I wish I knew what to expect."

"Well, whatever happens, we'll be facing it together," said Ilend, trying to be reassuring. "He'll have you, Mazoga, me, Aerin, Oreyn... and he'll have a plan for Blackheart's army. I'm sure." Some might call his faith in Gorgoth blind, but the Imperial had seen what the warrior-shaman was capable of. He wouldn't have believed it himself, had he not seen it with his own eyes.

"I've known Gorgoth for seven years... seven long years," murmured Lurog, speaking half to himself. "He is a good Orc, a great Orc. A worthy leader for anyone to follow. We've been through battles together, battles in which thousands died and the earth trembled under our hooves. I've been with him through hard times and harsh winters. I feel honoured to be one of his most trusted companions. Yes, I trust that he will think up a plan. But Azani has greater experience, greater knowledge of his surroundings, and quite possibly a greater ability in single combat." He straightened. "We will see."

"Yeah, we will. A hundred drakes says the big guy beats Azani." Aerin sniggered at the incredulous look that the warrior shot her. "Hey, I'm just confident in him. Shouldn't you be?"

He nodded, leaning forward and looking her in the eyes. "Yes. I would willingly follow him anywhere. But he always has warned against overconfidence..." The Orc straightened and shook his head, raising his voice. "But we shouldn't be focusing on what might be. For now, we should eat to keep up our strength. I only hope the canteen hasn't run out of bacon. I'll see you later." He nodded to both of them and walked off in the direction of the Great Hall.

"I'm not nervous," muttered the archer, folding her arms. "If the big guy can take on that lich, then I'm fairly sure he can take on a Redguard with a shiny sword."

"I think it might be slightly... different this time, Aerin," observed Ilend. "But enough about that. Lurog's right. I'm hungry." He started off down towards the canteen, pushing thoughts of the upcoming engagement from his mind. It would be dealt with when the time came.

* * *

Gorgoth was swiftly growing used to Mazoga's constant presence. He'd expected it, of course, after last night, and he wasn't about to object. Not only was she an able fighter, but he respected her far too much to hurt her needlessly, and he suspected that any hint of rejection by him would hit her hard. So she was his constant companion, walking beside him as he made his way over to the West Barracks, having eaten as much as his wounded stomach could hold. "I still have no idea how we're going to deal with that army of his, especially if there's quite a few good Orcs there," she was saying.

"We might not even have to. But everything depends on the current situation there. Basing a strategy on predictions alone is foolhardy. Dwelling on it now is therefore useless."

She snorted but nodded in agreement as they entered the West Barracks. Several off-duty Blades were getting some valuable rest, and others were occupied with whatever they could put their minds to. Some nodded in greeting as Gorgoth passed; a few even rose to salute him. Callia Petit did neither; she merely shot him a look of resentment and went back to sharpening her katana. As the warrior-shaman approached the Breton, Mazoga leaned against the nearby wall and started watching for danger. Apparently, she had become his bodyguard as well as his lover.

"What do you want?" growled the Knight Sister as her fellow Blade eased himself down into a sitting position near her bedroll.

"I want to give you the opportunity to get revenge for that scar," replied the Orc, pointing at her chest. The whetstone stopped dead against her blade, and she looked up to eye him with suspicion. "Yes. I am going to kill Azani Blackheart. But the Blades deserve a chance to strike at him as well."

"I'm in," she grunted, rising to her feet with a look of determination spreading over her face. Clearly, he was not the only one she was eager to kill. "But... have you cleared this with Jauffre?"

"Yes. Captain Varsis is forming a squad of volunteers. I told him to keep a place for you open. You'll find him in the courtyard." The warrior-shaman also rose to his feet, towering over the diminutive Breton. "We will be leaving soon. You had better hurry."

She made to leave, then paused, frowning. "What do you plan to do about his army?"

"We will deal with that when we get there. Now go and prepare. The sooner we leave, the better." The Knight Sister nodded and quickly strode off, sheathing her katana. Mazoga shot a hostile look at her back as she passed. It was inevitable that she would hate someone who had effectively sworn to kill her lover, but Gorgoth trusted her enough not to go against his will. Then again, love could do odd things to people. Yet another reason for him not to let this particular variety affect him. "Are you ready to leave?" he asked.

"Always. So are Lurog, Ilend and Aerin, from what I heard. The old man has already buggered off in search of action." She snorted. Her abrasive personality meant there was mutual dislike between her and many people; Gnaeus was just one of many. "Promise me something, Gorgoth." All dislike was now gone from her face, replaced with something approaching worry, and she walked up to him, placing both hands on his shoulders. She was tall enough not to have to reach up far to do it. "Promise me that you won't... do anything stupid." He searched her face and found a tangle of differing emotions; love, anxiety, and a hint of the stubbornness that would never desert her.

"You know me, Mazoga," he rumbled, folding his arms. "I will not act until I have thought up a plan of action. I will promise that." Seeing that she was still concerned, he continued. "You know that Azani is a match for me. He might kill me. But I will be far more prepared this time." That was true; the memories of their last fight always burned in his head when warning against the dangers of not setting a rigorous enough guard at night.

"I just... don't want to see you like... _that_ again," she growled, shaking his shoulders slightly. He knew exactly what she meant; for an entire week his body had been racked and ravaged by Sinweaver's cruel enchantment. He'd borne it with his typical fortitude, but even then Mazoga had cared for him, and she had witnessed every minute of it.

"It won't happen," he reassured. "Either he will not cut me, or I will die. This time, if he lands a debilitating blow, he will finish the job." That much was certain. Their previous encounter had been too uncertain, but this time, one of them would die. Taking her hands, he removed them from his shoulders and placed them back at her sides. "We should leave. I want to be sure that we won't get stuck here by that storm." Ominous dark clouds had been spotted over Skyrim, driven towards them by the north wind. Steffan – an expert on the local weather – had remarked that it would be a bad one.

The Blades were already assembling in the courtyard, preparing their horses. Jauffre – aware of the mood of the garrison - had been willing to let as many as twenty volunteers go, but even so, Glenroy had been forced to turn away a few eager Blades. As the two Orcs approached the stables, the Knight Captain ceased bellowing orders and fell in beside Gorgoth. "We'll be ready in a few minutes," he told them. "Best get away quickly; I don't like the look of those clouds." Several of his comrades shared his sentiment; cautious glances were frequently being directed to the north. "Once we get past Bruma, the travelling will be fine."

"We'll ride hard," responded Gorgoth, nodding in thanks to Lurog as the Orc brought him Baluk, who was saddled and eager to be out of the stables. Mazoga walked off to deal with her own horse. Glenroy looked around him at the Blades under his command and grunted.

"I really hope you've got a plan," he muttered. "Twenty Blades and whoever you and Oreyn bring along aren't a match for over seven hundred men."

"You might be surprised."

* * *

They need not have worried about the storm; Gorgoth's furious initial pace meant that they were well beyond Bruma and in a sheltered camp for the night before it hit. They had been able to continue without much delay in the morning when it had largely blown itself out. Three days from Cloud Ruler Temple to the Blackwood was impressive, given the size of their party. Having reached the Drunken Dragon Inn just before sunset, the warrior-shaman and Glenroy had agreed to camp most of their force in a good campsite a short distance away from the inn; it would never have held all of them.

"Bloody Orc," muttered Aerin, understandably irritated by Gorgoth's insistence that they stay with the Blades. "Why couldn't us two at least have got rooms? I'm sure they've got space." She was undoing the straps of Firebrand saddle with more force than was strictly necessary.

"He'll be sleeping here as well," pointed out Ilend, placing a feed bag over Javelin's nose. "Besides, it's better to sleep with the men. Means you don't get resented for your superiority."

"Well, I ain't in the Blades, and I ain't in charge of them," growled the archer. "I should be able ta sleep where I want to. Bloody Orc..." her voice trailed off into angry, incomprehensible mutterings as she finished with Firebrand. Her Imperial companion turned away to hide his smirk. He had no doubt that the Bosmer would be taking up her complaints with Gorgoth directly if he had still been there, but he had left swiftly - along with Lurog, Mazoga and Glenroy – in order to meet Oreyn at the inn.

"Look on the bright side," he told her, leaning back on a tree and watching the Blades set up the camp with the efficiency and skill he'd come to expect from them. "At least we're almost in what's effectively a bloody jungle. You'll be in your natural element while I'll be sweating my arse off." That much was true; winter had yet to come to the Blackwood, and though their camp was only on the fringes, the heat and humidity was still uncomfortable after the cold of the north, particularly as he was still dressed for that climate under his chainmail.

She smirked slightly and joined him in watching. "Yeah, I guess ya could say that, guardsman." The Wood Elf breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of the jungle. It probably reminded her of her native Valenwood, but Ilend was more interested in her chest as her lungs expanded. She noticed him looking and gave him a sly dig in the ribs before nodding behind them. "Come on. I think there's a spring over there."

There was no spring in the tiny clearing, but at least the cold of the advancing night cooled the Imperial somewhat. He slumped down with his back against a tree, loosening his sword belt and leaning his head back. In the break in the otherwise thick canopy, he could make out Secunda overhead, its silvery light providing illumination in place of the dying sun's rays. Aerin slid down beside him, also looking up. "Nice view," she murmured. "Reminds me of when my dad used ta point out the stars ta me when we camped for the night out in the wilderness..."

"Yeah... I remember once when my parents – Arkay watch over them – took me out to visit one of my uncles in the country. I spent hours on his balcony, just looking up..." The Guildsman sighed contentedly at the memory. His companion's warm side pressed against his was equally contenting, and a tranquil silence developed. Ilend, however, was slightly nervous. He'd been blessed with a lot of time to think recently, a rarity in war, and he'd finally reached a conclusion. "Aerin?"

"Yeah?"

"I've been thinking... we might not have long left in this world." She turned her head to look at him sideways, a look of slight confusion on her face. "I mean, Azani's forces aren't going to be a pushover. And then we've got to get whatever Martin says we need next. I just..." He sighed; his heart was already beating faster. It sped up even more as the Bosmer slipped her hand into his, giving it an encouraging squeeze. "I just thought we'd better enjoy things while we can. So..." He cleared his throat. "Do you love me?"

The Wood Elf stared at him for the merest fraction of a second before laughing in delight. "_Finally_ he gets around ta asking," she chuckled, rising slightly before twisting around to dump herself in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her body against his. "I was wondering if I was gonna have ta give ya any _more_ hints." Before the slightly befuddled Ilend could respond, she was kissing him.

Coherent thought returned after a few minutes, by which time the sun had fully gone down. The Imperial, pulling back slightly, squeezed her slim body in his arms. "No paralysis?" he asked, frowning in mock curiosity. "No freezing? Am I dreaming?" She snorted with laughter and buried her face in his neck.

"You ain't gonna let me forget that, are ya?" she growled, playfully punching him in the ribs.

He grunted, smirking. "Nope. Never." He sighed, removing his gauntlets. "I will echo your earlier complaints, though. A warm bed would be very nice right now..."

Aerin looked up and shot him a devilish grin. "Who says we need a bed?" she purred, tracing his jawline with a finger. He could already feel his body starting to ache with desire, and she did have a point; the grass in the clearing _did_ look soft... but then a cleared throat reminded him that other beings did indeed exist in this universe.

"Dinner's on the spit if you want it," muttered an embarrassed Ferrum Moniel, who was already turning to leave, his cheeks significantly redder than normal for a Breton.

Ilend looked down at the Bosmer in his arms. "I guess we do need to eat," he muttered. "Best keep our strength up. Not only for tomorrow, but..." He smirked as they rose to their feet. "I do seem to recall Gnaeus telling me you'd be a handful."

She sniggered as she slipped her arm around his waist, walking back towards the now fully-built campsite. "Ya'd better believe it, guardsman."

* * *

Modryn Oreyn looked up irritably as the door to the common room of the Drunken Dragon Inn flew open. He'd had various annoyances on his mind recently; first and foremost was his expulsion, but apart from that there was the confusing sprawl of the Blackwood, making travelling off the roads hazardous; the fact that Blackheart had forces far superior to his own; the inn had no notion of what a good ale was, and, finally, his ebony armour was uncomfortable for sitting in. All of those irritants, however, shrunk as the hulking, massive figure of Gorgoth gro-Kharz stomped into the common room.

Even better, the warrior-shaman was not alone. Another Orc, clad in chainmail with a formidable shield on his back, followed him in. Sizing him up in an instant, Modryn could tell that he was a veteran fighter who would fight to the end and love every minute of it. Exactly what he – and the Guild, coincidentally – needed. That warrior in turn was followed by a slightly more interesting Orsimer, this one a female, though that was only evident due to her slightly softer-looking face and the fact that she wore her black hair in a multitude of thin braids, as opposed to the two men who wore two thick braids hanging to mid-back. Her armour was ebony, the same as his, though by far the worse for wear; parts of it were seared and badly battered. But it would do, given that she seemed to be just as confident in her own fighting abilities as her two male comrades.

The last person to enter, closing the door behind him, was far smaller than his elven companions, but no less interesting. For one thing, he wore the armour of a Knight Captain of the Blades. The Dark Elf had seen armour of that kind before, back in Morrowind, but it was entirely unexpected here. He'd known that Gorgoth was a member of the Blades, of course, but as there was no Emperor he'd never paid it much attention until now. The Imperial wearing the armour deserved it, from what the Dunmer's experienced eye could tell; he looked every bit as dangerous as the Orcs, with that same grizzled demeanour that marked a veteran of conflict.

"I believe you owe me a drink, S'kasha," said Antus Flonius, smugness evident in the Imperial's voice. "I did say he'd bring bruisers along." The Journeyman – somehow at ease in his old suit of iron plate armour - was seated to Modryn's right, drinking some of that swill that passed for ale from a battered mug. He and S'kasha were both from the Leyawiin Guildhall, and had jumped at the chance of some action, even if it did mean working openly with a disgraced exile. He appreciated them for that, though he suspected that they'd have been slightly more reluctant if the Blackwood Company hadn't eroded all Guild work in Leyawiin.

"Antus has not won yet," growled S'kasha, the Khajiit glaring across at him. "S'kasha does not see any proof of these so-called bruisers being any good at bruising yet." She was far more at home in this environment, it being close to some parts of her native Elsweyr, and her studded leather armour was probably more comfortable by far than the heavy plate worn by her companions. The Protector's golden fur was matted and untidy in places, but she never had been one for personal appearance. As one of the best hunters in Leyawiin, she'd never had reason to care.

"Shut up, the pair of you," barked Jongar, slamming his empty tankard down on the table to empathise the point. "Do you want to look like a load of bickering morons in front of that lot?" They fell silent; their respect for the Nord was evident. It was not for his skill with the warhammer slanting across his back – though he was a fearsome and highly skilled combatant – nor for his rank. Instead, they respected him because he had survived Kvatch. Few among the Guild could boast of that. He'd been promoted to Protector the moment he turned up at the Anvil branch. His presence here was welcome, but a complete coincidence; he'd been visiting friends in Leyawiin and had happened to be staying the the Inn just as Modryn had arrived. Always one for preserving the honour of the Guild, he had insisted on being included.

The ex-Champion stayed silent as Gorgoth and his three companions eased themselves down into the wooden seats at the now-crowded table, relaxing slightly as it became clear that the creaking chairs would take the weight of them and their armour. One of the Orcs – the female – waved over to Andreas Draconis and called for ale in a voice loud enough to make S'kasha wince.

"Good to see you brought some fine warriors with you, at least," grunted Modryn in greeting. "Though I'm not sure if that makes up for the three days we spent sitting here bored, waiting for you to haul your green arse down here." He emptied the tankard in front of him and grimaced. Jongar must have a stomach of steel; the Nord had downed barrels of the foul stuff since they'd been here.

"Numbers might make up for that," responded the warrior-shaman. The Dark Elf frowned; surely the ex-Warder could count? "I also have with me Protector Ilend Vonius of the Skingrad Fighter's Guild, and his companion, a skilled archer," he continued. "Additionally..." he let his voice trail off and directed a nod in the direction of his Imperial comrade.

"I am Knight Captain Glenroy Varsis of the Blades," announced the swordsman. "I have with me twenty Knight Brothers and Sisters from Cloud Ruler Temple." The abrupt end of his announcement left a somewhat shocked silence. Gorgoth had managed to bring over _twenty_ men along? And not just any men, but _Blades_. Modryn's hand unconsciously rose to scratch his chin. Interesting indeed. He nodded distractedly as the warrior-shaman introduced his Orcish companions – Lurog gro-Brugh and Mazoga – and motioned for his own people to state their names before speaking himself.

"Azani Blackheart and his army are camped in and around the Ayleid ruins of Atatar," he began. "We don't know-" The Knight Captain interrupted him.

"He has about seven hundred men under his command with varying levels of aptitude. He additionally has up to a hundred veteran Orcish warriors attached to him, who are under the command of Burzukh gro-Ghash. That Orc is Blackheart's employer, in fact."

Modryn merely raised a curious eyebrow, but S'kasha couldn't contain herself. "How does the Imperial _know_ these things?" she blurted incredulously.

"We are the Blades," stated Varsis simply. "Information gathering is our business, especially when this... warlord had threatened some of our own." A dark cloud passed over the Imperial's face.

"I know Blackheart personally," claimed Gorgoth, looking dispassionately into his tankard. "We left our marks on each other." A hint of emotion crossed that stony face. Was it anger? Apprehension? Any emotion shown by the Orc was so rare that it was impossible to tell. Ignoring it, Modryn leaned forward.

"Tell me everything," he growled. "What happened the last time you met him?" The Orc looked up and met the Dark Elf's eyes.

"He almost killed me."

* * *

"Get those thrice-damned horses unharnessed, you hopeless gang of sheep-kissing arse-lickers!" The sharp tongue of Dralor Tedran, the master of the small trade caravan, lashed at his retainers with a ferocity that had swiftly become common. It was not that they were unskilled – far from it – but the irritable Dunmer seemed to think that giving those under him verbal encouragement would always make them work faster. After all, to a merchant, time was money.

Gorgoth, of course, paid barely any attention to the traders as they started making their haphazard camp for the night just off the road from Orsinium to Sentinel. He and his mercenaries had been paid to see them safely to the border of Orsinium and Wayrest; they would protect the caravan, but need not lift a finger for anything else, no matter how frustrated Dralor became. The warrior-shaman had already removed the two outer layers of his battle armour, leaving him only protected by his boiled leather armour as he slid down with his back against a tree. Lurog, Urag and Mazoga had the first watch; all three could be trusted to stay awake and alert. He himself wished to contemplate further on the new paralysis spell he was close to perfecting. A pair of boots crunched behind him; it was autumn, and no one could move without disturbing a patch of frosted grass or fallen leaves.

"Nothing out of the ordinary to report, Captain," stated Dura gra-Gor, his third in command. Gorgoth commanded a force of fourteen mercenaries, all Orcs, hand-picked by himself. He'd known each one of them for at least a year or more, and was willing to trust each of them to at least some extent. Best of all, they were all veterans who knew exactly what their duty required of them.

"Carry on," he ordered, without turning around. She saluted and spun on her heel, marching out to where the first sentry would be. Some of his old comrades from the army had commented that discipline in his small force was tighter than it ever had been in the military. In some ways, they were right.

Leaning his head back, the warrior-shaman closed his eyes, losing himself in the theories of Illusion magic. Around him, the chaos of setting up camp continued, the workers cautiously stepping around the seemingly sleeping Orc. He might be the mercenary least prone to anger, but at the same time he managed to be the most intimidating. Even so, they trusted him and his company implicitly. Fifteen battle-hardened Orsimer would be enough to defeat any bandits. They were wrong.

Gorgoth opened his eyes. Something moved in the deeper forest, beyond the borders of the camp. Urag gro-Urzog had seen it as well and was frowning in that direction, slowly sliding his battleaxe off his back. He was so focused on the possible threat that he barely had time to move when the arrow came from a completely different direction, burying itself in his temple. The crash of the heavily-armoured warrior falling to the ground alerted everyone, but the man responsible for their protection was already on his feet.

"_Ambush!_" he roared, tearing Blood King from the strap running across his torso. "Look alive!" His mercenaries needed no further stimulus; they were already surging to their feet. But it was too late; the ambush was well-prepared, and a dozen bandits of all races were already charging into the camp, with more behind them. Gorgoth blew one unlucky Redguard apart with a fireball then raised a hand to summon bound plate armour from Oblivion; his own armour was uselessly leaning against a tree a few feet away.

Just before the spell could be completed, a green orb hit him squarely in the chest. He felt his magicka desert him, all his incantations and knowledge now useless as the Silence spell took hold. The caster stepped out in front of him, ordering two of his underlings to go around, leaving the two leaders of the opposing sides facing off. He was a Redguard, tall and powerfully built, clad in plate armour made from a gold-coloured metal that Gorgoth had never seen before. Sharp brown eyes peered out at his opponent from under a helmet made from the same material, and in his hands was a large claymore, with elaborate engravings running the length of the blade. The air around the edge appeared to shimmer slightly, and the steel itself was glowing a dull, ominous red.

Moving forward quickly, the warrior-shaman immediately swung powerfully towards the Redguard's ribs. He needed to end the fight quickly; without his armour or his magic, he would be vulnerable to that enchanted blade. The sounds of battle were all around them now, but his enemy stayed detached from it as he parried the attack with ease, stepping back to absorb the force of the blow. A few sparks ran over the blade's edge, but there was no other reaction to the powerful enchantment of Blood King. It was a rare sword that could withstand Malacath's power; if the wielder deserved that weapon, then he would be a worthy opponent.

"I am Azani Blackheart," announced the Redguard as he watched the dark mace warily. He'd felt the bite of the enchantment, and would know now that it was no ordinary mace. "Yours will not be the first long-braided head I've taken." Having never been truly defeated in battle or in combat, Gorgoth had never cut his hair, which by now hung almost to his waist. He'd heard of the bandit before him; he'd been preying on merchant caravans in his native Hammerfell for years before moving north. The Orc did not doubt his claim; the land of the Redguards had always produced fine swordsmen, and Blackheart appeared to be a master of his trade.

"If you wish to take my head, stop wasting time," growled the warrior-shaman. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Lurog struggling to contain the rapid attacks of a golden-furred Khajiit, who was relentlessly beating at the Orc while attempting to find a way through the plate armour that rendered his claws near-useless. Refocusing on his opponent, the Orsimer had to move quickly to block an overhead slash towards his midsection. Forcing the Redguard back, he kicked at his knees before swinging down at his head. Both attacks were dodged.

Their personal duel began in earnest, each determined to put a quick end to the other as dying screams echoed around the campsite. Neither could gain an advantage; unencumbered by his armour, Gorgoth was faster than normal, fast enough to counter Blackheart's even greater agility, and his superior strength was undiminished. But the greater freedom came at the cost of security; more than once, he'd had to block or evade an attack that he could have ignored when wearing his plate armour. Minutes flashed by.

The end, as it often did, came suddenly. Blood King parried the claymore upwards before both of them recovered simultaneously; the mace head swung into Blackheart's side just as his blade cut deep into Gorgoth's stomach. The Redguard was thrown into a nearby tree, several of his ribs shattered, while the Orc staggered backwards, an involuntary gasp torn from his lips at the sheer agony of the deep gash stretching from chest to leg. He was still lucid enough, however, to recognise that his opponent's Silence spell had died. Falling to one knee, he instantly sent his most powerful healing magic running through his body, focusing on the mortal wound. Nothing happened; the pain did not abate, the wound did not close.

Above him, the Redguard had staggered to his feet, raising his sword, but before he could land the killing blow he fell back, growling angrily. Lurog, bleeding from a hole in his greaves, glared at the bandit, his left hand gripping his fellow warrior's shoulder almost as tightly as he was gripping his mace. Krognak gro-Durak stepped up beside them, his huge greatsword red with blood. Coughing up blood, Blackheart shot one last wary glance at the three of them before turning and staggering away.

The danger gone, Gorgoth collapsed onto his back, dropping Blood King and fumbling for a dagger to cut away the leather. Lurog beat him to it; within seconds, most of his armour had been sliced through, baring most of his body and the injury that could not be healed. It pulsed venomously, spurting darkened blood with every beat of his heart. Surrounding the wound, reaching about an inch from the cut, was a band of dark grey flesh, colder than ice to the touch. And it was expanding in tandem with the increasing pain.

"You need an alchemist, brother," growled Lurog, glaring down at the wound before waving to some survivors that his superior could not see. He was right; by putting every last scrap of his concentration into the spell, the warrior-shaman could halt the dark spread, but he could not remove it.

"Find me-" He coughed violently, doubling over. A second's loss of concentration, a mere wobble of the spell, and the darkness gained another inch. Soon it would claim him. "Find me some black lichen and... and crushed roobrush. I... I must get back to... Ors-" His voice failed him again, but his companion would know what he meant. Lurog raised his head and repeated his orders in a deep shout. Krognak sheathed his sword and ran off to organise the remnants of their company. Gorgoth put his head back on the sparse grass and snarled. He was probably going to die, but he would fight it every step of the way.

"Hang on, brother."

* * *

"He hung on for a week before we could finally get the dark spread to recede," recalled Lurog, finishing Gorgoth's tale for him. For obvious reasons, the warrior-shaman could not recall the details of large parts of his recovery, but potent herbs combined with the constant magical aid of the best healers in Orsinium had been enough to nurse him back to health. He'd paid, though; his stomach had been permanently weakened, and the dark scar still hurt from time to time. "I, for one, don't know how he did it. Any cut from that blade will kill within twenty seconds." The Orc sliced the air with his hand as though simulating an imaginary death.

"How do you know that?" asked Modryn, his eyes narrowing. Throughout the narrative, he'd been ever-attentive, searching for any possible weakness in Blackheart that could benefit them. He had found none. The man had powerful magic as well as skill with a very deadly sword. He was a near-perfect warrior... but everyone had a weakness. _Everyone_.

"We found some corpses on the road back to Orsinium. Black and bloated, every last one. Killed by Sinweaver's foul enchantment." Lurog shook his head and buried his face in his tankard.

"It is the work of the Ayleids," added Gorgoth, staring into his ale. "Constant powerful healing magic was required simply to halt the spread of the effects. I do not know what they used to enchant that blade, or how they did it, but I have never seen the like. Blood King is just as powerful, if not more so, but different. It is the work of Orcs and Daedra. But the Ayleids were always magically powerful."

"Well, at least you broke Blackheart's ribs," boomed Jongar, slapping the table. He'd had several ales too many, but at least he hadn't fallen off his chair yet. "And you'll have us at your back this time. He's beaten."

"Jongar should not be so over-confident," hissed S'kasha, glaring across Modryn at the Nord. "This one thinks Jongar should spend more time planning a battle than getting drunk and boasting about how easy it will be."

"Shut it," growled the ex-Champion. "Whatever he wields, we can take him. His army is what I'm worried about."

"Leave that army to me," muttered Gorgoth. Modryn didn't like the cold fire burning in the Orc's eyes. Forcing any unease out of his mind – he could trust the warrior-shaman – he leaned forward and spread his map out on the table. Pushing their drinks to the side and dragging their chairs closer to the table, they started to work out a plan of action. Tomorrow, the Guild would get its honour back.

* * *

**A/N: I truly have no idea how this chapter ended up as long as it did. Initially, I thought I'd struggle to reach 10k words, but I've ended up with over 14k. Odd how these things work out... Anyhow, be sure to leave a review. They're always welcomed.**


	39. Reaping

**A/N: It's been a while since my last update, yes, but... well, I don't really have any excuses, so I'll just try to get my focus back for the next chapter. Anyhow, thanks to everyone who reviewed; they most definitely help with motivation.**

**Simple Thought: Well, you know Gorgoth says never to underestimate anything... well, his six-year-old self clearly underestimated a pond. Saliith's on a losing streak? No one informed me...**

**Yes, I like Oreyn. Hope I managed to keep him in-character this chapter as well. There were a few areas that I have suspicions about... Gnaeus, swiping Sinweaver? The man's got a tongue, but he's no thief. And as for those Daedra... read on. And yes, I most definitely approve of your review.**

**Rokibfd: Metaphorical, literal, whatever; yes, expect a lot of battles to happen as the fic nears its end. Only logical, really. Yes, he's an onion, and yes, most of his past is unexplained. And a lot will remain unexplained until he chooses to reveal it. He's a private bloke. As for Azani's army, Gnaeus and Lurog scouted it in Chapter 28. That's how they know the troop numbers. Thanks for the review. Hope I don't disappoint.**

**Random Reader: Yeah, you could say that. And while Dremora are powerful, I can't see a few of them sneezing on an army and killing all of them. Yes, Azani's powerful, and he's meant to be. Always felt that he should be tougher than he was ingame. And as for Skyrim, fear not; I've already started planning my Skyrim fic, though obviously it won't be around for quite a while. And that sounds like something Gorgoth would do...**

**Underpaid Critic: I have no idea what that French phrase means, but I assume it means I'm doing something right. Always good to hear. Hope I can keep that up.**

**Just remember, people: reviews always help me. Even if they're one-liners. Just take a few seconds/minutes to leave one is all I'm asking. I wrote 14k+ words in this chapter; a few words doesn't seem like a big ask compared to that.**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-nine: Reaping**

_The biting wind howled around him, the gusts cutting through his layers of clothing and armour and chilling him to the bone. He was now so numb that he could barely feel the pulsing pain of his wound; a deep gash between his lower ribs. His hand held some ice to the bloodied flesh around the cut, but Blood King was steady in his other hand as he staggered through the storm, high up on the slopes of the merciless Wrothgarian Mountains. He could feel parts of his broken shin rubbing against his boots, but pushed on regardless; he'd come to kill someone, and Gorgoth gro-Kharz was not prepared to fail._

"_Burzukh!" he roared, not even the storm able to completely swallow his mighty voice. About fifty paces ahead of him, barely visible through the whirling blizzard, Burzukh gro-Ghash turned to look back at his adversary. The Orc's face was a bloody ruin; half of his jaw was hanging loose, his left eye had been torn from its socket, and ragged gouges covering the left side of his face were deep enough to show flashes of the white skull, if snow had not already filled the gaping crevasses. The half-blind warrior turned and surged forward, his unhurt legs already taking him away from his pursuer._

_Gorgoth growled in frustration. He'd already killed all seven of Burzukh's men, and his father would say that he had succeeded in his mission, but the warrior-shaman's honour called for the head of his enemy hanging from his belt by its braids. That enemy was clever, however; his battleaxe had been poisoned. His magicka gone from him, the Orc could only watch as his target vanished into the mists._

_Falling to his knees, Gorgoth gritted his teeth at the pain in his leg. Burzukh had escaped, and if he had any sense he'd flee to where none could pursue. But his time would come. Time and distance could not erode the desire for vengeance._

The warrior-shaman opened his eyes. It was still night; Masser and Secunda were bright above the dark canopy of the Blackwood. The grey fingers of dawn were barely visible to the east. Five Blades and Lurog were standing guard at the moment; it was a large rotating watch, but he'd insisted on it. Mazoga's body was warm against his under their shared blanket. Both were fully clothed; better to be prepared for battle than to surrender to the heat and humidity of the jungle. Careful not to wake her, the Orc slid off his bedroll and pulled on his boots before rising to his feet.

Burzukh had not been the subject of much discussion the night before – to Oreyn, he was Gorgoth's problem – but he could never be ignored. Not only was he a formidable opponent, but his Orcs would follow him, not Blackheart. And he'd had a hundred and twenty thousand septims to throw around. It did not take a genius to work out who was financing him, but it never hurt to be certain. More than one head would have to fall today before he would be satisfied. Working his neck and digging his fingers into the thick muscle, the Orc wandered slowly over to where Lurog was leaning against a tree, still as a statue as he gazed out into the night.

"Anything of note?" he asked, receiving a shake of the head in response. Nodding, he leant on the tree beside his old friend and fell silent, watching as the eastern sky slowly turned lighter. "Do you know anything about Shagar?" he asked. Shagar gro-Durug was Lurog's cousin, and a good Orc. He'd been one of the men Burzukh had brought with him from Orsinium.

The warrior sighed. "Not a thing," he grunted. "I didn't see him when we scouted Blackheart's camp before. He's there somewhere, though." His hand clenched around the head of his mace; as he shared blood with Shagar, Lurog would demand the right to single combat if they met on the field of battle. No matter whom he served, an honourable Orc deserved a good death. Gorgoth's plans, however, would mean that many might die without even knowing they were in battle. His comrade knew that.

As the sun rose, the camp came alive. Glenroy only had to say a few words; the Blades were well-trained and well-disciplined. Tents and supplies were tied to packmules, horses were fed and watered, and armour was donned and double-checked. Only half of the sun was showing over the horizon when the Knight Captain marched up to his fellow Blade and reported everyone mounted and ready to move out. At any other time, a captain reporting to his inferior might seem odd, but all the Blades recognised that this was effectively a Fighter's Guild operation; they were just here to settle their own scores.

Gorgoth, now fully armoured, swung into Baluk's saddle with practised ease. He was used to armour far heavier, and while Baluk was no warhorse, she bore his weight well. Turning the mare, he walked her down the line, looking over the men and women he'd be going into battle with. Callia returned his gaze evenly, her jaw set and determined behind her helmet's cheek guards. She might hate him, but that didn't mean she wouldn't fight beside him today. Further down, Ilend and Aerin had their horses standing close together, both of them checking each other's weapons over. It hadn't been hard to determine what had happened between them last night; it had been coming from a long time.

Turning to look over his men again, the warrior-shaman was aware of Lurog and Mazoga behind him to the right and left, the traditional positions of an Orcish lord's Bloodguards. Satisfied, he raised his voice. "Blackheart's army at Atatar is about three hour's ride from here," he announced. "We'll meet up with Oreyn's men just east of here. For now, I want scouts out ahead and on the flanks. Let's move."

* * *

The light in Atatar was ever-present. There was no escape from the blue crystals evident in every room, every passageway. They never dimmed, never died, and never failed to stop annoying Burzukh gro-Ghash. He'd shattered every single one in the room Azani Blackheart had given him, and still the fragments glowed on the floor, mocking him. Eventually he'd shoved all the fragments inside several thick burlap bags whenever he had to sleep in the Ayleid ruin. That bought him some darkness, at least. He had no idea how his Redguard host could stand the Ayleids. To the Orc, they were merely long-dead elves who could still annoy people with their magic and ruins.

"I still think this is unwise," muttered Atulk gro-Magob, his second in command. Both Orcs were fully armed and armoured despite the early hour and the fact that they were within an underground fortress that had nearly nine hundred soldiers to defend it.

"I don't care what you think or what he thinks," growled Burzukh, shoving the door to Azani's inner sanctum open. "I'm no slave to anyone. I fight how I fight." He gestured angrily for Atulk to precede him into the chambers. The warrior did so, waiting while his commander shut the door behind them.

The bandit lord was sitting in a well-padded stone chair, one booted foot resting on the opposite knee as he traced a calloused hand over a map. Unlike his guests, he was unarmoured, dressed only in well-cut clothes that wouldn't have looked out of place on a provincial lordling. Grey streaking his close-cropped black hair and fine lines around his brown eyes were signs of his age, but it would that would not slow him down for some time yet. The Redguard was a man in his prime, with over two decades of experience behind him. He even had a slight aura of majesty around him.

Burzukh paid no attention as he stopped over to slam a fist down on the table, glaring down at Azani. The warrior looked back calmly, tipping his head back to meet the Orc's eyes. He was tall for a Redguard; he would only be overtopped by five inches if they were both standing. "You're not doing enough," growled Burzukh, pushing the map away from him. "You have eight hundred men here, you know where he is, you know how he operates, yet you do nothing. I didn't think I would be working with a coward." He spat onto the cold stone floor. Atulk winced.

"And how would you move an army across the heart of the Empire unnoticed?" asked Blackheart, unconcernedly examining the wide gold signet ring on his right hand. His voice was cultured, refined; a far cry from what most people thought of bandits. "No. I know what I am doing, Orc. You came to me for a reason, I recall." He looked up then, directing a challenging stare upwards.

"I thought I was hiring a man of action," snarled the Orc, turning and starting to pace up and down the small room. Sinweaver lay on Azani's bed, looking malevolent even when sheathed. "I've sent twenty of my men north already, I'm sure you'll know that. I'm taking the rest of them with me when I leave today."

The Redguard leaned forward. "Is our agreement still in place?"

Burzukh grimaced. "Yes," he muttered. "Thirty thousand if you kill him, sixty thousand if you bring him to me in chains. I'm a man of my word." He cocked his head to one side. "Are you?"

Before his host could reply, the door flew open and Do'kazirr rushed in, pushing past Atulk. "This one has..." he was panting, leaning on a wall, trying to regain his breath. Azani crossed the room within second and gripped the cat's shoulder, telling him to rest. After a few seconds he continued. "This- I have a message from Jo'danirr. He says-" He was cut off by his superior, who turned to glance at the two Orcs.

"I have a bloody right to hear whatever he has to say," snarled Burzukh, starting forward. There was a slight buzzing of magicka, and he had to leap out of the way as Sinweaver flew past him, the hilt slapping into the Redguard's hand. Their eyes met, brown meeting yellow.

"You were going north, I believe," Azani told him in a voice that was as soft as silk, but infinitely more dangerous. He nodded his head towards the door. "If you please." Behind him, Do'kazirr hissed threateningly, sliding his claws out and in. Atulk looked at his superior, shaking his head slightly. Growling a curse in his native tongue, Burzukh stalked out of the room, spitting again as he left.

"Muster the men," he growled to his second in command. "And find out what's going on." As the Orc sprinted off, however, he knew perfectly well what was going on. He could feel it in his bones. One hand traced the scarred ruin of his eye socket. Battle was coming.

* * *

Gorgoth gro-Kharz stood on one slope of the vast hollow, visible to every eye in the enemy camp below. Beyond the ragged encampment, the white pillars of Atatar shone in the sunlight, but he would focus on that later. For now, he had several hundred soldiers to deal with. At his back, just out of sight among the trees, were twenty-one Blades and four Guildsmen, along with two Orcs, an unaffiliated archer, a disgraced ex-Guildsman and two Dremora. Several Akaviri katanas had flashed free of their scabbards when he'd summoned the Daedra earlier, but now each and every one of them knew his plan. The Blades and the Daedra might not get along, but today they would need every blade they could find.

"You are sure about this?" asked Medraka. The Xivilai was the warrior-shaman's only companion on the ridge; he'd even forced Mazoga to stay back with the rest.

"I have destroyed larger armies before."

"Not by much. Remember that I, too, was there at the Durlakh Gol. You could barely stay in your saddle afterwards."

"That is why you are here now."

The ash-skinned Daedra looked at him sideways. Their heights were exactly the same, but unlike the barely-clothed Xivilai, Gorgoth was in full armour with four weapons to hand; Blood King and Selene's glaive were strapped across his back, while his Akaviri dai-katana and the Thornblade shared his sword belt with several potions. He was staring at the camp below with his face free of anything that could be called emotion. They'd known of his presence for quite some time; they were in the process of mobilising, with several squads clustered around the camp, ready to guard it from attacks from any direction. But they would not be ready for his assault.

The Orc stepped forward and raised his right hand, palm downwards. Even if some of the soldiers down there had looking-glasses, they wouldn't be able to see the dark glow spreading from his hand, wouldn't be able to see the look of intense concentration on his face as he started muttering incantations in Orcish. Sweat started to prick at his forehead and he clenched his other fist to stop it trembling. Medraka turned and waved a hand downwards. Behind them, barely visible through the thick growth of the Blackwood, the rest of his allies braced themselves.

His magicka was alive within him now, his vast power swirling around, making him crackle with energy as it begged to be released. Gorgoth narrowed his eyes and started casting.

Lightning stabbed out of a cloudless sky, blasting craters all over the camp, throwing men and horses around like rag dolls. The readiness of mere seconds ago was forgotten in a blind panic as the troops forgot all discipline and started running around blindly, aimlessly. Scores were being cut down within seconds, but the true slaughter had not yet begun. Fireballs started dropping from the heavens, ripping gaping holes in the earth and immolating dozens of soldiers at a time. The ground shook under Gorgoth's assault, but he was not finished.

The earth itself started to erupt, great gouts of fire reaching for the sky, infernos fed by howling winds that trapped everything within reach and dragged screaming, praying men back into the fires. Closing his eyes, the warrior-shaman ignored the great strain he could feel in every fibre of his being and continued, conjuring a ring of fire stretching all around the camp. He closed it slowly, trapping any survivors of his apocalypse in a vice from which there was no escape. The screams of the dead and the dying were lost in the roaring of fire and the rumble of thunder.

He slowed down what little magicka remained in him, slowed the spell, stopped it. Opening his eyes, he saw that there was nothing left of Blackheart's army but a scorched, cratered wasteland that reached to the walls of Atatar. Then the weariness hit him, and he staggered, held up only by his own willpower and Medraka's arm wrapping around his shoulders. He heard the Xivilai growling incantations in the harsh language of the Kyn, felt the power of the Daedra's magic flow into him. His own magicka started to recover, sparking once again. The exhaustion that numbed his limbs receded, leaving only the natural fatigue that might be associated with a day's hard riding.

Grunting, the Orc stepped forward and stood unaided. His magicka was depleted, but now at least he could fight rather than waste hours waiting for his strength to return. The Xivilai himself might need several potions; he could not regenerate magicka like mortals and Dremora, and his own spell had been powerful. But he'd done enough. Turning, Gorgoth beckoned the rest of his companions forward. The battle had only just begun.

* * *

Aerin – despite still being slightly stunned by the display of destruction before her - was the first to leave the relative safety of the trees as Gorgoth beckoned to them. Jogging to his side, she gaped down at the remnants of what had once been a formidable fighting force. She'd seen it done, of course, seen his true power, but... _there's nothing left. Nothing!_ She hesitantly looked up into the Orc's face. He was tired, that was certain, but it was barely in evidence. He was invulnerable. He _had_ to be. "How do ya... _do_ things like that, big guy?" she asked, laying a hand on his arm.

"Anyone can be powerful in their own way, Aerin," he told her, gazing towards Atatar without any emotion in either his face or his voice. "I do what has to be done." He turned away to talk to Modryn, who was looking down at the devastation with his arms folded, nodding in appreciation. The Wood Elf stayed still, glancing out at the scorched earth once more. She shuddered; despite knowing that the warrior-shaman wouldn't do such things to her, his sheer power and stoic demeanour still unnerved her sometimes. This was one of those times.

"This isn't the first time he's done something like that," grated a harsh voice behind her. Spinning, the Bosmer found herself looking up at one of the Dremora that Gorgoth had summoned when they'd arrived. He was looking at the Orc's back with something like admiration in his fearsome red eyes. Those glowing orbs flickered to her briefly. "I recall he once shattered a charge of Breton knights with nothing but fireballs. Another time, he opened the ground beneath a shield wall and effectively won a battle. That is what warrior-shamans do, and I understand that he is one of the best of his kind." The Kynaz grimaced as though just realising that he'd talked at length to a weak mortal, and turned his back on her to stride over to his comrade.

"I don't know how he does it, but I'm glad he's on our side." This voice was far more agreeable to the archer's ears, and she smiled as Ilend joined her on the slope. His shield was strapped to his left arm, and his hand was resting on his sword hilt, but he looked relaxed at the moment. He would be; after that display, no sane enemy of Gorgoth would want to be within twenty miles of him.

"Ya got that right, guardsman," she sniggered, wrapping an arm around his waist and shielding her eyes as she looked towards Atatar. "Do ya reckon Azani's still in there?"

"Definitely. Gorgoth wouldn't have done that if he thought Azani was in the camp. The Guild needs proof of his death." The Protector's assumptions were proven correct moments later when Gorgoth ordered everyone to move out in the direction of Atatar. As they skirted around the edge of the blackened pit he'd created, the warrior-shaman surrendered the lead to the Dark Elf and fell back to talk to Lurog and Mazoga. Aerin tried to fall back to listen in, but Ilend pulled her forward again. "Come on, you know his plan. Stay focused."

All of them did indeed know his plan; he'd been through it with each one individually on the way there, making sure every fighter knew exactly what was expected of them. While the archer knew what to do, it didn't mean she was happy with it; she was in the rear guard under S'kasha's command, making sure no one escaped thorough the ruin's only entrance. Not only would she miss out on the best of the fighting, but Ilend would be away from her and in the thick of it. She knew Gorgoth's reasoning, knew that it was logical and sound, but... _I still don't have to like it_.

"Enemy sighted on the walls." Modryn's gravelly voice brought her back to the present and she took Trueshot from her back, nocking an arrow as the group spread out. There were indeed several soldiers on what walls Atatar still possessed; all had bows, but the distance was still too great to discern much. "You know what to do. My section, move up." Several Blades, Jongar and Antus followed the Dunmer as he started marching directly towards the ruin. More Blades fell in behind Glenroy as their captain led them around to flank from the right. Gorgoth took the Daedra along with Lurog, Mazoga and Ilend to sweep around to the left. Aerin was left in the company of S'kasha and three Blades as they moved in behind the ex-Champion's company, keeping their distance.

The sparse opposition was swept aside; four men on the walls were feathered by arrows, and the remaining three fled into Atatar. Two more were found hiding in the shadows and were swiftly put to the sword. Modryn's squad led the charge into the Ayleid city, swiftly followed by the other two, whereas S'kasha's section swept the exterior ruins first to ensure there were no others in hiding. Finding none, the Khajiit Protector ordered a cautious advance into the city itself.

Those that had preceded them had done their work well. The white walls of the first few corridors into the depths of the city were splattered with blood, and dozens of corpses littered the stone floors, illuminated by the blue crystals embedded into the rock of the ceiling. There was no uniform, no predominate race amongst Azani's men; Aerin was tempted to call them a rabble, but some few would have a backbone and some fighting skill. That was proven by the bodies of two Blades interspersed among the dead.

"Their katanas must have already been taken by the Captain," grunted Jena Carius as she straightened from her second comrade's corpse. "At least they died well."

"You got that right, Sister," responded Cyrus. The Redguard was slightly ahead of them, looking down the next passageway. "Looks like they resisted hard. Can''t see any Orcs, though. Maybe they all died when Gorgoth did his... thing." That much was a relief. Aerin knew that she could shoot down any common mercenary, but a berserk Orc could shrug off even well-placed arrows. The memory of Boethia's Tournament was still strong.

"I'm getting sick of Ayleid ruins," she growled under her breath. The third Blade in their company, a Breton called Jerian Gane, overheard her and shot her a curious glance.

"Personally, I find this fascinating," he observed, reaching out and running a gauntleted hand down the shining walls. The Bosmer snorted.

"Try spending half a week in one, then watch a friend get killed by an Ayleid lich-king," she told him, her voice bitter. "It loses its charm." She stalked away further into Atatar before he could respond.

It was slow going; the corpses dried up after a few minutes, but S'kasha insisted that they make sure every single enemy was dead before proceeding. And when they finally came to an open area with three corridors leading from it, she ordered a stop; their duty was top stop anyone from escaping, not to join the attack. Aerin muttered darkly about boredom and leaned against a pillar, folding her arms and resting them on Trueshot. She knew that Khajiit was right, but she'd much rather be in the thick of the action, fighting alongside Ilend. Settling down for a long wait, she wasn't expecting to hear approaching footsteps, heavy boots ringing on stone.

"Look alive!" barked S'kasha, taking up a good vantage point atop a crumbling pillar with an arrow half-drawn. The three Blades drew their katanas and spread out, each leaning on the wall beside an opening. Aerin crouched beside a pillar that she could swiftly duck behind to avoid any return fire. They waited, all as tense as Trueshot's bowstring, as the rapid footsteps came ever closer.

"I don't care _what_ he's paying us, we don't stand a chance against-" The Imperial's complaint to his comrades behind him was cut short as he rushed into the chamber, seeing part of the ambush waiting for him. He desperately attempted to turn around, but the mass of his companions pushed him forward from behind. A small smirk plucked at Aerin's lips as she sent her arrow straight through his right eye. _Not bad_. She certainly hadn't grown rusty. S'kasha's arrow took a huge Redguard in the throat, and he stumbled backwards, knocking most of the other soldiers off-balance, easy prey for the flickering katanas of the Blades.

There were over ten of them, but they were disorganised and panicked. The two archers took three each and the swordsmen accounted for the other four. However, the next group was forewarned, and they entered far more cautiously. One died with the Khajiit's arrow in his throat, but a warhammer-wielding Nord charged straight for her, his comrades holding off the outnumbered Blades. The Bosmer sent an arrow through his skull, but a Redguard had spotted her and closed the distance rapidly. Backpedalling, the archer drew and fired again, but her motion threw her aim off. The range was short, however, and the arrow embedded itself in her foe's sword arm. Grimacing in pain, he threw his broadsword to his left hand and swung at her.

Dropping Trueshot, Aerin rolled out of the way of the blow and came up with her shortsword in hand, turning to block another swing. The power of his attack shook her entire arm, and she gritted her teeth; even using his weaker hand, any Redguard swordsman worth his blade would be at least her equal. Putting a hand on his chest, she shoved him backwards, aiming a thrust at his midsection, but he parried it and barged forward, forcing her off-balance. He was drawing back his arm for a swing that would finish her when he suddenly staggered and collapsed. The shaft of an arrow protruded from between his shoulder blades.

"This one does not like shooting the prey in the back," growled S'kasha, retrieving her arrow. "But sometimes it is necessary. Try to keep your distance, little elf." The Bosmer glared at her fellow archer and was about to retort when the Suthay held up a hand. "Just friendly advice. No time for disputes now, yes?" She bared her teeth in what might have been a grin or a snarl and turned, walking back to her pillar.

Shaking her head, Aerin walked over to the pile of corpses near the entrance and retrieved what arrows could be used again. There was a sizeable dent in the side of Jerian's breastplate, but apart from that the Blades seemed unharmed. In the past, the archer would have scoffed at a squad of five taking on nearly twenty soldiers and winning, but this time, they'd had quality, terrain, location, and, most importantly, surprise on their side. What had Gorgoth once told her? _Surprise is the most deadly weapon that can be wielded_? He was probably right.

"You okay, archer? Good for another round?" Jena was wiping her katana clean on a rag torn from the tunic of the dead Argonian at her feet.

"I could do this all day," snorted Aerin as she returned to her place beside her pillar. "What about you, swordswoman? You getting tired yet?"

The Imperial laughed, the sound echoing off the walls. "Don't you worry about me," she retorted. "To my knowledge, I'm outscoring you." She laughed again when the Wood Elf stuck out her tongue.

"Quiet!" Cyrus raised a clenched fist, and they all fell silent. Even if they had continued, however, the thunderous footsteps fast approaching them through another passage would have been heard quickly enough. "Orcs. It has to be. I doubt any others in Blackheart's army make that much noise."

"Hide! We'll strike from the shadows!" Jerian followed his own advice and took cover in what little darkness there was. The rest quickly emulated him; it sounded like an entire company of Orcs, and they wouldn't go down as easily as sellswords. Aerin grimaced; elves could see better into darkness than humans, and she felt very exposed as she knelt in the shadow of a collapsed pillar. And no captain worth his salt would ignore the pile of corpses piles in front of one of the archways...

She barely stopped herself from gasping as Burzukh gro-Ghash strode into the room, massive battleaxe in hand. He was instantly recognisable by his scarred face and battered helmet, but he had never before struck this much terror into the Bosmer; not only was he peering suspiciously around the chamber, but two dozen of his comrades, all in heavy plate armour, had filed in after him and were spreading out. _We can't take all them. It's impossible._ For the first time in what seemed like a long time, she was scared for her life.

The massive Orsimer barked a stream of instructions in his harsh native language, and a few of his soldiers – it was hard to tell if some were men or women under that armour – went to prod the bodies of Azani's men. Looking across the room, Aerin met S'kasha's golden eyes. The Khajiit seemed to be praying. None of the Blades were in sight, but they all knew that attacking twenty-plus Orcs would be suicide.

One of them seemed to be arguing with their leader, but Burzukh was ignoring him, his eyes sweeping over the cavern, looking into the shadows. Twice his eyes swept over her, and twice it was all she could do to stop herself shivering. _Just go_, she pleaded, silently urging him to move on. _There's no one here. Just go._

They didn't go. Their scarred commander gave an order, and most of his men started moving around the edges of the room, thrusting torches into the shadows. One headed straight for the crouching Bosmer, and she knew her time had come. Sighing, she stood, tempering her fear and resigning herself to her fate. Best to go down fighting. In one smooth motion, she had nocked an arrow, drawn the bowstring to her cheek, and fired.

As the Orc collapsed – his armour providing no protection from Trueshot's enchantment – all three Blades leapt from their hiding places, roaring wordless battle cries as they charged the startled Orcs. Their enemies recovered quickly, however, and within seconds they found themselves fighting three to one. Aerin herself danced around one opponent, whose warhammer was too slow to catch her, and planted her feet, aiming for Burzukh. He'd turned to face her, and a hint of recognition flickered in his eyes. At the last second, he threw himself to the ground, and the arrow meant for his heart instead took the mer behind him in the side of the neck.

Before she could even reach for another arrow, foul breath on the back of her neck warned her of imminent danger and she ducked. The claymore missed her, but her attacker gave her no respite, instead picking her up and throwing her onto the pile of dead mercenaries. As she scrabbled for anything to give her a firm purchase, struggling to get up, the Orsimer grinned evilly and thrust his blade not only through her thigh, but through every body beneath her until the tip grounded on hard stone.

As she gasped and writhed in pain, dropping Trueshot and weakly reaching for her shortsword, the Orc moved in, kicking her sword arm. The sharp crack of her elbow breaking brought a yelp of pain, and she let her head fall back onto the chest of a dead Khajiit, looking up at her soon-to-be killer with tear-filled eyes. He had drawn a broadsword from his belt and was slowly raising it over his head. Aerin squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't want to see the end.

The end never came. Instead, a feline screech tore through the air, and the Bosmer opened her eyes just in time to see S'kasha dash from her previously undetected hiding place and leap onto the Orc's back, burying her dagger in the base of his neck. The lithe cat leapt off the Orsimer's back as he fell, but all the immobile Wood Elf could do was watch as the corpse toppled towards her. She watched, and hoped that the soft cushion of corpses beneath her would protect her.

It didn't. Her enemy crushed her as he fell, squeezing every breath of air from her body and snapping a few ribs into the bargain. The claymore tore across her leg, almost amputating it; she would have screamed if she could. Instead, all she could do was wait for the end to come, for one of Burzukh's men to tear the corpse off her and finish her off. Her helplessness meant that tears of frustration mingled with those of pain. They were joined by tears of sorrow when she realised she'd never see Ilend again.

Through the haze of her semi-consciousness, some voices distracted her. Guttural Orcish voices raised in argument, followed by a screeching that chilled Aerin to the core. She dimly realised that the bulk of the elf atop her was concealing her from her enemies; unless they took their dead with them, she would not be discovered. At the moment, she was unsure if that was a blessing or a curse. The screeching continued, changing pitch until it faded into a helpless wailing, which was abruptly cut short by the unmistakable sound of an axe splitting bone. More conversation followed, then the only sound was of receding footsteps.

Aerin waited for a few minutes before groaning and attempting to push the corpse away from her. All the strength seemed to have leeched from her arms, but at last she managed to free her head. The stench of the dead all around her diminished slightly, but she still barely kept herself from retching. Wiping a hand over her face, she let forth a shuddering sigh, her entire body trembling. The agony was assaulting her in waves, but she was still able to focus on the scene in front of her.

Five Orcs lay dead, including the one atop her. Cyrus was sitting up against a wall, his torso a mass of wounds. His blank, dead eyes were staring across the room at Jena's headless body. Jerian had been hacked to pieces. But they had all died in combat. It was S'kasha's corpse that the Wood Elf's eyes flinched away from. The Khajiit's head had been split in two by the axe blow that had killed her, but she'd suffered before that; both her arms had been torn off and had clearly been used as clubs to break whatever bones her tormentors could find.

The Bosmer let her head fall back on her fleshy pillow and closed her eyes, attempting to ignore the pain that racked her body whenever she drew breath. She was alive, but with that claymore pinning her... she found herself praying that someone, _anyone_, would come back and find her. In this ruin, wounded with only corpses of friends and enemies for company, Aerin had never felt more alone.

* * *

Blood spurted over Ilend's sword arm as he withdrew his longsword from the Breton's chest, stepping back from his vanquished opponent as he fell. There had been no shortage of killing since they'd entered the ruin, as Blackheart had apparently stationed a sizeable proportion of his forces within Atatar. They were dying, though; spread out as they were, they could only face the attacking squads in small numbers at a time. Turning, the Imperial saw that the remainder of yet another band of mercenaries had been ruthlessly dispatched. He tore a rag from the Breton's shirt and started cleaning his blade.

"You might actually be worthy of wielding that," observed Chaxil, casually leaning on his claymore as he looked around at the carnage. "Who did you take it from?"

"A Dremora at Kvatch." If the ex-guardsman's memory served him correctly, it had been archers who had killed the Kynaz, but Ilend had taken his sword nonetheless; he'd already killed at least a dozen Dremora beforehand, and many more since. Besides, the honour of the Kyn wasn't about to stop him taking an enemy's weapon when his own had broken. He was willing to tolerate the three Daedra, so long as they fought his enemies and not his allies, but he wouldn't trust them an inch. Blackheart was merely a bandit; the true enemies would always be Dagon and his Daedric minions.

"Some day, we might meet on the field of battle," mused the Dremora, as though he'd read the Imperial's thoughts. "I would look forward to such a battle."

"That's the future," pointed out Gorgoth, wiping brain matter from the head of Blood King. "Focus on the present." The Orc's leading from the front meant that Ilend was underworked at times; with his mace in one hand and the Thornblade in the other, the warrior-shaman simply tore apart any opposition that came his way.

"Where are the Orcs?" demanded Lurog, who'd become increasingly restless as they'd penetrated deeper into Atatar. "If Shagar's not here, if he was in the camp..."

"If he was in the camp, there's no changing it," said Mazoga sharply, cutting across him. "Take it up with Gorgoth later. Not now."

"What's so important about him?" asked Ilend. "Isn't he just another one of Burzukh's Orcs who happens to be related to you?"

Lurog spun to face him, his face contorted into an angry snarl under his helmet. "He's my _cousin_," he growled. "I _know_ he deserves an honourable death."

"Focus on that later," Gorgoth told him. "For now, we press onwards." He nodded to Medraka, who hefted his battleaxe and resumed leading them down the passageway. It had been continuing for a long time; the Ayleid builders of Atatar had favoured long corridors and large rooms. "I'd rather not find Blackheart only to find that someone has beaten me to him."

Ilend fell in beside him and shot him a questioning glance. "I didn't think this was about your personal revenge."

"It is. My desires and what is best for the Guild just happened to coincide perfectly." The Orc raised the Thornblade in his left hand and looked at the slightly serrated blade critically. The weapon's enchantment glowed a dull yellow at the edge of the blade. "This is a good sword," observed the warrior-shaman. "I haven't had a chance to use it effectively until today. It would have been wasted on the skeletons at Miscarcand." Up ahead, Medraka had stopped beside an archway that led into a larger chamber. Gorgoth signalled a quiet advance until they were lining the walls either side of the arch.

"Orcs inside. Six of them." The Xivilai was clearly using a spell of life detection; Ilend couldn't see anything, or hear anything apart from a muted rumble that might be voices.

"I see no point to waiting." Lurog hefted his shield and charged in, followed closely by the two Dremora. The Imperial followed more warily, instantly looking around and noting the surrounding area. A high ceiling gave the room a cavernous feeling, and several steel frames full of crystals hanging from above gave sufficient illumination to discern that this room used to be an armoury. Weapon racks lined the walls, filled with the remnants of weapons that had largely rusted away long ago. Some few held intact swords and axed that hummed with enchantments, but of immediate note were the six heavily-armoured Orsimer spreading out with weapons in hand.

"Stop." Gorgoth's clenched fist allowed no argument, and the squad under his command formed a line abreast of him. His enemies stopped as well, glaring suspiciously at him. "Where is Blackheart?"

"Further in," growled one of the Orcs, who was wearing plate armour and gripping a large battleaxe with both hands. "Not that we care any more." His helmet did nothing to hide the look of revulsion crossing his face. "Bloody coward. You're welcome to him."

"Shagar." Lurog snarled and hefted his mace before looking around at his comrades. "He is mine." None argued. _If he wants to kill his own cousin alone, fine by me_, thought Ilend, as he stared across the void towards the Orc opposite him. None of them looked particularly vulnerable, and he'd had extensive experience of fighting alongside well-trained Orcs such as these. They wouldn't be easy meat.

"What about Burzukh?" asked Gorgoth.

Shagar barked a harsh laugh. "He's already gone. Gone north to hunt you, in fact. You just missed him." A cruel sneer plucked at the Orc's lips. "If only he'd known you were here..."

Ilend didn't catch the warrior-shaman's reply. His mind was racing. If Burzukh had left after they arrived... there was only one way in or out of Atatar. And it had been guarded by the rearmost squad. "Aerin," he whispered harshly. He spun to leave, only for Gorgoth's hand to clamp down on his shoulder. "You don't need me," he snarled at the ex-Warder. "She will." _If she's still alive_.

Mocking laughter echoed throughout the room. "The chief took over twenty Orcs with him," remarked one of the enemy Orcs in a Cyrodilic that was so heavily accented that the Guildsman could barely understand it. "Anyone in his way is dead by now."

Gorgoth ignored them. "Go," he muttered. "Go and find her. If she's alive, track Burzukh. I would rather not lose him again." The Orc gave him a push in the back, and Ilend needed no further encouragement. He was halfway down the corridor, sprinting hard with his shield on his back, before the clash of steel and steel from the chamber behind reached his ears. Ignoring it, he put his head down and ran harder.

Dashing through a large Ayleid ruin in full armour took its toll, and by the time he'd nearly reached the entrance, the Imperial was sagging, his lungs burning and his legs weak. Pausing for breath, he leaned against a nearby wall, panting hard. Corpses and his own thoughts had been his only company on the way back. Pulling off his bloodied gauntlet, he wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. He was under no illusions; Trueshot was a powerful weapon, but against twenty Orcs, Aerin, S'kasha and three Blades stood no chance. All he could cling to was the hope that she had somehow made it out alive. A fool's hope, but he'd rather not comprehend the alternative.

"Now I know why Savlian forbade romantic relationships between the guards," he mumbled to himself as he slid down the wall into a sitting position. Not that there had been many women in the Watch anyway. Anger flared within him, and he pounded the wall with his fist. "If Gorgoth can do it, why can't I?" he shouted to the Ayleid stonework. But Gorgoth was different. The Imperial doubted that he'd even care if Mazoga fell in combat. He'd probably even be happy that she'd died well. Snorting, he hauled himself to his feet and replaced his gauntlet. "Sweet Mother Mara, please don't let her die," he prayed desperately as he broke into a run again.

He charged into the room she and her squad would have been holding with sword drawn, looking around at the carnage. His heart sank; the small chamber was littered with corpses. The Akaviri-styled plate armour of a Blade caught his eye, and he knelt beside the body of Cyrus, who was slumped against the wall. He must have been stabbed at least ten times. Sighing shakily, the Guildsman sheathed his sword and prepared himself for the grisly task of searching through the dead.

"Took ya long enough, guardsman."

Spinning, he wrenched his longsword from its scabbard, eyes flickering around the room until they fell on her. "Put that away, guardsman," she laughed. "I ain't a cheese for slicing." The Wood Elf was lying on a pile of dead bodies with a dead Orc at her feet. Bloodstains formed patches on her leathers, but the smirk on her face and the empty healing potions scattered around her sent waves of relief pumping through his body. He sheathed his sword and strode rapidly towards her, throwing off his shield and kneeling before wrapping her in his arms.

"I thought you were dead," he whispered into her neck, attempting to locate her smell from the overpowering stench of death all around them. He felt her snigger and tighten her hold on him.

"Doubting me, Ilend? I should feel insulted." She smirked and pushed back from him. "But I, ah... have a small problem."

He frowned and looked at where she was pointing. "Ah." A claymore was jutting out of her thigh, just below the hip. He bent to examine it, noting that no blood was oozing from the wound.

"Yeah... 'ah'." She chuckled again before stopping and wincing. Behind her ever-present cheerfulness, he could detect great pain. "Could ya get it out? It's become a tad annoying."

Ilend ran his hands around the steel. "The healing means that the flesh has knitted around the blade," he grunted. "I'll have to cut around it before it can come out." He drew his dagger and looked at her.

Aerin sighed, letting her head drop back onto the Khajiit she was lying on top of. Her face was drawn with pain, he realised. How long had she been lying here? Hours? Before he could ask, she nodded. "Whatever. Do whatever ya have ta do. Should I scream?"

He grimaced. "Probably best if you don't." Standing, he walked over and removed the sword belt from a dead Redguard, handing it to the Bosmer. "Bite down on that. I'll try to be quick." He knelt with both legs pinning her other leg to prevent any involuntary spasms.

She nodded and shoved the hard leather into her mouth, biting hard and nodding again for him to begin. He sighed and worked his neck before taking a firm grasp of her leg next to the claymore. The muscles of her thigh were tight and tense under his hand as he gently placed the tip of his dagger to the claymore and slid it down until it touched her skin. Then he ruthlessly plunged it down until he felt the tip break through on the other side of her leg. Ignoring her heaving body and desperate grunts of pain, he worked the blade from side to side, widening the new wound, attempting to see through the blood spurting over his hands.

Fortunately, his was a good dagger, long enough for the job and sharp on both sides. Once he'd made the gash big enough, he wrenched the dagger out and grasped the claymore's hilt. It was evident that he'd have to pull it out of the numerous corpses under Aerin as well, so he pressed down on her thigh with both knees while yanking upwards with both hands. It slid about a foot before halting. From the sudden relaxation of the elf's body, he knew that she'd passed out, so he stood and braced his boot against her, putting all the strength of his arms and back into pulling the Orcish weapon upwards.

It came free suddenly with a wet _squelch_, overbalancing Ilend, who almost fell before taking several steps backward. Sparing a glance for the weapon – it was almost as tall as he was – he dropped it and knelt once again, pressing both hands to the bleeding wound and healing it. He made sure the the flesh underneath the rip in her armour was whole – there was a small scar from the initial wound – before relaxing and slumping down beside the unconscious Bosmer on their bed of corpses.

Cleaning his dagger on a nearby rag, the Imperial sheathed it before gently shaking Aerin's arm. After a minute of increasingly insistent jolting, she groaned, her eyes flickering open, blinking several times before finally focusing on him. "Nice job, you bastard," she muttered, grinning weakly before wrinkling her nose. "When you've been lying here for hours, the smell kinda gets to ya." He jumped to his feet and helped her rise before stepping back as she cast around, looking for Trueshot.

"What happened here?" he asked, looking curiously around the room. His eyes fell on S'kasha and he grimaced. No need to ask what happened _there_.

The Bosmer sighed and made sure Trueshot was secure on her back before answering. "We defeated that crowd of idiots easily enough," she told him, waving towards the pile of corpses she'd been lying on. "But then... Burzukh and about twenty of his lackeys showed up. We hid, but..." she sighed and looked down at the Orc that had been lying at her feet. "They found us. We didn't stand a chance. I only survived because they didn't think ta check underneath this big bugger here." She prodded the body with her foot.

Ilend glanced down at it. "Odd that he managed to trap you when you stabbed him in the back of the head."

Aerin bit her lip. "I didn't kill him," she admitted. "I was lying on the corpses with my eyes squeezed shut waiting for the end." Shuddering, she turned away and looked down at S'kasha's mutilated body. "She could have stayed in the shadows, ya know. They wouldn't have found her. Why did she save me? She didn't even know me..."

"Think of it this way..." The Imperial squeezed her shoulder. "If you were her, what would you prefer to do? Stay cowering in the shadows, looking on as your comrades were put to the sword, and having that memory for the rest of your life? Or do something, _anything_ to help, even if it meant your own death? I know what I'd pick. Every single time. It's the warrior's choice. You just have to be brave enough to do it when the time comes." He looked past her down at the Khajiit's body. Her death had been neither quick nor painless, but she was no coward. That might be some comfort to her in Aetherius.

The Wood Elf turned and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest despite the drying blood splattered over large parts of it. Ilend returned the hug, feeling her tense body relax. He was content to remain in that position for a few minutes, but then his duty pricked at him. "Aerin, Gorgoth asked us to track Burzukh. He doesn't want to lose him again."

She sighed and looked up at him. "I've just been lying for a few hours with a sword through my leg and I've only got two potions left. Can't we have some rest?"

The Imperial snorted, his face hardening as he stepped back from her. "Clearly, you're still not much of a soldier. We rest when we're dead. He'll have a big head start on us, but we can move quicker. There's only two of us."

Rolling her eyes slightly, the Bosmer ran a hand over her sword hilts and tapped her bow. "Fine, fine," she grunted. "I'm ready when you are. Lucky I didn't die, eh? Last I knew, ya couldn't track a lame mammoth." Smirking, she turned and sauntered out of the chamber towards the surface. Chuckling, Ilend caught up with her.

"Clearly, I've never told you about that time I tracked those bandits to their hideout on the plains north of Kvatch..."

"Spare me, guardsman." She grinned and nudged him in the ribs. "I've almost been killed once already today; no need ta bore me ta death."

He refrained from boring her to death, and instead he gave her two of his eight healing potions to replenish her stock. As they left the ruin through the large archway, the bright sunlight outside was blinding after so long in the crystal-lit underground Ayleid city. The Guildsman blinked vigorously and shaded his eyes, squinting up at the blue sky as he moved forward. He only realised the danger when Aerin grabbed his arm and threw herself to the ground, dragging him down with her. Rolling onto his back, he was just in time to see the battleaxe cutting through the air above them.

Frustrated by his miss, the Orc used the momentum to swing again, aiming downwards, but Ilend rolled to his feet and the axe blade embedded itself in the soft earth. He pulled his shield from his back and wrenched his sword from its scabbard, giving the Orc time to free his weapon. The heavily armoured warrior looked up to see Aerin taking Trueshot off her back, and charged to close the distance, knowing the threat that bow posed. She cursed and put it back, fumbling her shortsword out instead. The short blade would be near-useless against her opponent's heavy plate armour unless she placed it perfectly, so the Imperial drew abreast of the enemy and barged into him, putting them both off balance.

A thick arm wrapped around the Protector's neck and attempted to throw him to the ground, but he countered by thrusting up towards the Orc's armpit. The hasty blow merely grazed the steel, but his opponent recognised the danger and shoved him away before blocking several of Aerin's experimental thrusts. His boot flashed out and caught the Bosmer in the stomach, sending her staggering back, but he didn't capitalise, instead stepping back and dropping into a defensive posture, yellow eyes flashing at both of them in turn.

Ilend grunted. "I suppose you're not going to tell us where the rest of you went?" His enemy snorted and growled something in Orcish. The Guildsman glanced sideways. "Aerin, shoot him. I'll cover you." While the Orsimer might not understand what the Imperial was saying, he certainly understood the archer removing her bow from her back. Starting towards her, he found his way blocked with a Daedric longsword darting for his head. Snarling, he deflected the attack and swung at his foe's legs.

The Imperial stepped back to avoid then dashed forward, bashing his shield into the warrior's chest, forcing him back. A few hopeful strikes were turned aside by the haft of the battleaxe, but he could hear Aerin attempting to move into a position where she had a good shot behind him. He merely had to keep his opponent occupied. The Orc darted forward with unexpected speed, the axe head cutting deep into Ilend's shield and staggering him. As his enemy wrenched his axe free, the Protector attempted to sever his right arm, but the Orcish plate kept out even Daedric steel. Pushing the Imperial away, the Orsimer raised his axe for an overhead cleave only to stumble as an arrow appeared in his throat. Within seconds, another was embedded in his forehead, completely ignoring his helmet.

"Good shot," remarked Ilend, allowing himself to sag as the armoured soldier crashed to the ground in front of him. He worked his left arm; that blow to the shield had jolted him.

"_You_ could have hit that target," responded Aerin, throwing Trueshot over her back as she sauntered forward to retrieve her arrows. She had a point; at only several feet away, a complete novice would have had a good chance at hitting a target as big as an Orc.

"Either way, Burzukh's got a big lead on us." The swordsman sighed and sheathed his blade. "Best get on with it. We'll get the horses then find their trail. Should be easy enough. I wouldn't want to fight a dozen Orcs, but at least they're not the most subtle of elves."

* * *

One thing was certain in Modryn Oreyn's mind; Blackheart's army hadn't grown any smaller since he and Vitellus had made their last attempt on his life. His advance through Atatar had long since devolved into one long running battle, with the bandit lord's forces falling back but constantly being reinforced. The Dunmer's Daedric mace was dripping with blood and bone fragments, and his ebony shield had been scarred numerous times, but he himself was unscathed, testament to his excellent armour and over a century of experience. The same could not be said of his men; two Blades had been killed, and he'd had to leave Antus behind with another to try to get the arrow out of the Imperial Guildsman's hip.

The ex-Champion did not have time to focus on his Guildsmen, however, nor on the battle raging around him. An Argonian bandit was sidestepping from side to side in front of him, a spear held in both hands, tongue flicking in and out of his mouth as those green eyes watched Modryn's every move. Unlike most of his countrymen, the Dark Elf wasn't prone to underestimating the lizard-men; he'd known several in the past, all good fighters. This one looked nervous, but it was always hard to read Argonian expressions.

Stepping forward, the Dunmer swung his mace in a wide arc, a powerful attack, but slow and obvious. The lizard ducked under it, opening himself up perfectly for the shield smashing into his face. As he lurched backwards, it was easy for the warrior to step forward and bring his mace crashing down into his chest. By the time the shattered bandit had hit the stone floor, his opponent was moving, searching for another target.

Moving past an unfortunate Redguard – the bandit's shield arm had been shattered by Jongar's warhammer – Modryn came up behind a Bosmer fighting for his life against one of the Blades. He kicked the Wood Elf's legs from under him and left him for dead, turning to meet the strike of a Breton wielding two shortswords. Both slid off his shield and the Dark Elf swung at him. His opponent foolishly tried to block the mace with both weapons, resulting in two bent swords and a broken wrist. Shattering his spine with an upswing to the groin, the ex-Champion looked up to see the remnants of the enemy squad in retreat once again. Two went down with arrows in their backs, but the remainder escaped, inevitably to join the next band that awaited them.

"Take a breather!" snapped Modryn. As his men relaxed – near-incessant killing was hard work – he leaned against a wall and tapped his mace against it in a futile attempt to shift the worst of the brain matter. Cursing, he returned it to his belt, ignoring the smear it left against his cuirass. At least he wasn't as bloody as Jongar. The Nord's iron armour was splattered with crimson, and half his warhammer's haft was slippery. Even his beard was more red than blonde. His fighting style was rather more similar to an Orcish berserker than anyone within twenty feet of him would have liked, but he was definitely effective.

"You getting tired, Dunmer?" inquired the Breton Knight Sister who had walked over to lean on the wall beside him. "I guess at your age, fatigue is going to be an issue." She snorted with laughter as she cleaned her katana with a rag. Caroline Genis was the woman that Glenroy had put in nominal charge of the Blades in Modryn's squad, but it was proving difficult to see why. The Breton was good with a katana and capable of casting a pathetically weak frost spell, but she was over-confident and only serious for as long as it suited her. She inspired confidence, it was true, but he'd have preferred someone with a more level head.

"I've forgotten more about leading than you'll ever learn, Breton," growled the Dark Elf in response. She merely sniggered and jerked a flask from her right boot, offering it to him before shrugging at his denial and swigging it herself. If the spirits inside were as strong as they smelt, he was thankful that she was limiting her intake. He'd seen grown men get drunk on less. "Don't get too pissed," he warned. "Fighting drunk is for Orcs. Not the kind of people you'll want to be fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with."

Caroline laughed. "Don't worry your pretty head, Dunmer," she told him. "Right boot is for combat, left boot is for the temple. The left boot flask doesn't have water in it." She shoved the offending drink back into her armour and straightened. "We heading out?" Modryn nodded and adjusted his ebony helmet on his supposedly pretty head as he stepped forward, pulling his mace free of his belt once again.

They continued deeper into the ruin, following the trail of blood left by one of the wounded survivors of the last engagement. The trail ended when they found his corpse, but there was only one way forward in any case. Shouts and footsteps could be heard echoing off the stone walls of the narrow passageway. _One good man could hold fifty here_, thought the Dunmer grimly as he eyed the walls, which couldn't have been more than six feet apart. Blackheart had chosen his fortress well.

A small archway marked the end of the passage. As they approached it, a grizzled Imperial armoured in chainmail with a longsword in hand stepped out, taking a few steps towards the squad and beckoning with his free hand. His hard grey eyes spoke of experience, and there was no doubt that the bandit knew the strength of his position. Beside Modryn, Caroline sniggered and drew her katana. "Come on, then," she said, striding forward to meet the Imperial. The Dark Elf and the rest of his men had no choice but to watch; any aid would be a hindrance rather than a help in the narrow confines.

The bandit said nothing. He merely stepped forward and attacked, his longsword curving down towards the Breton's neck. The edge of her shield parried the blow, leaving him vulnerable to a slash that opened his thigh. Grunting, he pressed forward, attempting to back his opponent into a wall. Instead, she slammed her shield into his chest and halted his advance. While lacking the strength to push him back, she caught his sword with her blade and kicked him in the knee. He stumbled backwards, but the Knight Sister gave him no rest, their blades clashing three more times before the katana clashed against the side of the steel helmet covering most of the Imperial's head. Stunned, the bandit fell back against the wall, barely remaining standing. Two wide, uncontrolled swings forced his adversary backwards, however, giving himself enough room to recover.

It was his turn to go on the offensive, turning aside Caroline's weapon and delivering a punch to hear head with his free hand that was strong enough to stagger her. Only a swift recovery meant that his blade merely grazed her plate instead of impaling her. Modryn grimaced and stepped forward. He hated feeling helpless, but he was unlikely to escape with a mere tongue-lashing if Captain Glenroy found that he'd let his subordinate get herself killed in single combat.

His help was not needed, however. The Imperial had overextended himself, and only his heavy chainmail saved him from being gutted as his opponent's katana rattled across his stomach. He swung downwards towards her head, but the Breton stepped back to smoothly avoid the blow, stepping back and slamming the edge of his shield into his helmet. She would have followed it up with a thrust to the midsection, a fatal blow, but her enemy took two steps backward and threw down his longsword.

"I yield," he announced gruffly. "I have no intention of dying for that deluded young bastard." He undid his helmet strap and threw it to the ground beside his sword, revealing sparse grey hair covering an aged, weather-beaten head. A stubborn, square jaw was marked by an old scar running from his right ear to his chin. Modryn hadn't been wrong when he'd guessed at experience; this veteran had likely fought in wars before Jongar had even been born.

"You're not bad, for an old man," remarked Caroline, picking up his longsword. It was good steel, though chipped and pitted in places. An old weapon. She wiped a tiny smear of blood from her cheek where the weapon had nicked her in his first attack. "A half-second slower with my shield and I'd need a new face."

He spat. "I ain't as young as I used to be," he growled as Modryn walked up, looking him up and down. The man was of average height, but his broad, stocky build made him appear shorter than normal. His chainmail was flecked with spots of rust, but it was well-crafted and still sturdy. He returned the Dunmer's gaze with his own, running his eyes over the scarred ebony armour and the bloodied Daedric mace at his hip. "Some people have it all," he snarled. "Good armour, good weapon... and you're likely to live four of my lifetimes." Folding his arms, his lip curled into a sneer. "What are you going to do with me?"

It was a good question. Modryn hadn't anticipated taking any prisoners. He wasn't about to detach anyone to watch the man, but taking him along with them would be too dangerous. "What's your name?" he asked. Maybe conversation would throw something up.

"Uriel Signus." The Imperial grimaced. "I'm a mercenary. Blackheart hired me to whip these whelps of his into shape." He pursed his lips and spat. "Gave me two months to do it. I've been here two weeks, and I've already realised it'd take at least half a year to make this rabble into anything useful. As you've seen yourself." He spat again. "No notion of discipline, and they've got more languages in this camp than sense. Training goats would be more productive. At least you can eat goats." Uriel brought his rambling to an abrupt end and leaned forward, looking into the Dark Elf's eyes. "If you go through that arch, be prepared."

"Why?" demanded Caroline, folding her arms. Her defeated foe's longsword was slotted through her belt. Doubtlessly, she only meant to keep it for as long as necessary; it was a shoddy prize for someone used to Akaviri katanas. "What's through there that we haven't faced already?"

"Try fighting something that can kill off half your squad without you noticing," sneered Uriel. "Do'kazirr's hardly the most pliable of Khajiits. Try getting _him_ to yield." He shook his head. "Don't even think about forcing me through first. He'd force me to eat my own balls for valuing my own life and surrendering. Release me and I won't trouble you again."

Modryn started to demand more information, but Caroline cut right across him. "Do we have your word on that?" she asked the mercenary. _Am I in charge here, or her?_ The Dunmer glared at her, but before he could unleash his tongue, the Imperial had spat again.

"My word?" he snorted. "Hasn't anyone told you that sellswords really don't have much honour, girl?" Noting her look of anger, he rolled his eyes and jabbed her breastplate with a finger. One Blade half-drew his katana before realising that a man with no sword wasn't likely to be able to kill his leader by poking her in the chest. "Look, if I say I won't attack you, then I won't attack you. There's nothing in it for me. I expected to be training raiders, not going up against the Emperor's bloody bodyguards. I'm out of here to find a new sword and a new employer."

The ex-Champion placed a hand on Uriel's shoulder. "Why don't you tell us a few more things first?" he inquired, a small, cruel smile appearing on his lips. "I'd hate to walk through that archway blind." Caroline understood the Dark Elf's intentions and nodded, smirking ominously and grabbing the Imperial's other shoulder. The mercenary's eyes flickered between both of them, his frown deepening with every second. Finally, he spat again and started talking.

* * *

"Guard the door. Make sure no one enters." Gorgoth's eyes swept the corridor in both directions. Nothing stirred, and his spell of life detection revealed nothing, but it was always best to be sure. Two Dremora and a Xivilai guarding the door would be sufficient.

"When you ask us to guard a door, you're normally raping someone on the other side," remarked Chaxil wryly as he took up a position beside the stone door with his claymore drawn.

"Not this time." They'd met minimal resistance throughout Atatar. Blackheart's army had been numerous but ill-trained and ineffective. Blood King had slaughtered many, yet the warrior-shaman could still feel the energy pulsing under his fingers, calling out for more death. That was good. He would need the enchantment's full power, along with any other advantage he could get.

He pushed open the door and entered Blackheart's chambers. Lurog and Mazoga followed him, both of them sheathing their weapons. They would play no part here. Lurog had already fought his own duel; he'd required healing for a deep gash in his thigh, but he had been the victor. Shagar's head was proof of that; the warrior had tied his cousin's head to his belt by his war braids.

The chamber was sizeable; the large bed was situated in a cleft in the wall, and several bookshelves lined the walls, along with a table and chairs that had clearly been pushed there, clearing a large space in the centre of the room. Crystals in the walls and ceiling provided ample illumination. Gorgoth let his magical light wink out; the magicka required to maintain it was tiny, but he might need every drop of it in the coming battle.

Azani Blackheart was standing in the centre of his redoubt, arms folded as he watched his enemies file in and stand in a line facing him. The Redguard – who had clearly been expecting them for some time - was clad in Ayleid armour, the burnished gold plate sparkling with the reflections of thousands of crystals. Only his head was bare; he always had preferred visibility over everything else. Sinweaver's hilt was easily within reach at his shoulder. He hadn't changed an inch. Gorgoth took two steps forward, holding Blood King and the Thornblade loosely. "Blackheart," he greeted, inclining his head respectfully.

"Gorgoth." The bandit lord tapped two fingers to his heart. "Would any further words be a waste of my breath?"

"Yes. You know why I'm here. If not me, then someone else will claim your head today."

A small smirk played across Blackheart's lips as he reached up and smoothly slid Sinweaver from its scabbard. The ex-Warder could feel the pulse beneath his fingers quickening as Blood King sensed a climatic battle approaching. In response to the weapon, his own heart beat faster. His fists clenched tighter around his weapons; the Thornblade might well be the edge he needed. Ayleid armour was strong and flexible, but the blade's enchantment would eat through even Daedric steel in mere moments.

"This will be different from last time," claimed the Redguard. He was right; not only did Gorgoth have another weapon and better armour, but the warrior-shaman could see tendrils of fortification magicka creeping up the bandit lord's arms to his body. The Orc followed suit, encasing himself in a strong shield spell as well as boosting his strength and speed. His enemy slowly unbent his stiff back and entered a combat stance, Sinweaver held upright in both hands. "Come, Gorgoth. Let us dance."

Stepping forward, the Orc swung upwards towards his adversary's spine. Blackheart jumped back then forwards, his claymore a blur as it darted for his unprotected head. Steel met steel as the Thornblade met the attack, and the warrior-shaman swung his mace again, far faster than he could have done normally. But for the first time in recent history, he was fighting someone who fought like he did; martial might backed up with strong magicka. The Redguard jumped and vaulted over the Orc's head, landing behind him with an attack already in motion.

Gorgoth spun so fast that the room blurred. Then he was facing Blackheart again, Blood King turning aside Sinweaver, sparks flying as the mace's enchantment fought for dominance with the protective Ayleid magics. The two combatants surged back and forth across the chamber, weapons flickering so fast that their movements were impossible to follow. Several times, the spectators had to move quickly to avoid them. Mazoga, watching with narrowed eyes, unconsciously grabbed at Lurog's arm several times, once squeezing his hand so hard that he grunted. She was gripping her sword hilt so tightly that the weapon was shaking.

Pushing the bandit lord back against the wall, the warrior-shaman attempted to kick his abdomen, but was forced back by his claymore arching towards his throat. One scratch and he would be dead; his healing magic could hold the black rot at bay, but it would be impossible to fight at the same time. Whether he knew it or not, his opponent was fighting under the same threat; with this much power coursing through it, one good hit from Blood King would utterly shatter him. The Thornblade could end it as well, but apart from a few scorched gouges where the blade had grazed his armour, the bandit lord was unharmed.

Stepping back quickly to get a few seconds for thought, the ex-Warder found that he was breathing heavily. Across the room, Blackheart's chest was also rising and falling, sweat starting to bead on his forehead. Their eyes met, light brown meeting dark yellow. The Redguard's mouth was curling upwards slightly; he was enjoying every moment. He came forward again, sword whirling. Gorgoth ducked and rushed forward at a crouch. The thrust rattled against his pauldron as it passed over his shoulder, but now he had his arms wrapped around his opponent's legs. He forced himself onward, rising and lifting the bandit lord's feet of the ground before throwing him to the floor.

Cursing, the swordsman twisted, rolling so that the Orc's boot caught him in the ribs instead of the head. He was thrown across the chamber with a dent in his armour and a cracked rib, but he was still alive. Bouncing to his feet, he wasted no time in charging again, his ferocity forcing his opponent back. As they clashed, the warrior-shaman got a glimpse of his adversary's eyes. They were wide, the pupils fully dilated. Behind the look of calm ferocity was a touch of ecstasy, of pure adrenaline.

Gorgoth grimaced. Blackheart's adrenaline rush would give him a definite edge. His only hope was to wait it out; if he survived, his opponent would be exhausted. But survival was looking difficult. Blessed with new-found speed and vigour, the Redguard started to batter at the Orc, forcing him across the cavern. Blackheart was simply too fast; he could block most of his foe's attacks, but Sinweaver was testing his shield spell far more often now. Dents appeared in his steel cuirass; if not for his Alteration, more than one of the attacks would have penetrated.

The Redguard persisted, forcing the warrior-shaman back against a wall and pinning him there, Sinweaver apparently coming from three directions at once. An attempt to lock blades and push him back with brute force failed, as did an attempt to shoulder-barge his way to freedom. Twice, only Gorgoth's quick reactions in throwing his head sideways saved it from being cleaved in two. A sudden kick forced his adversary back, but he recoiled with such speed that the Orc had to dive sideways to avoid impalement.

Sinweaver instead stabbed into the wall, over a foot of its length vanishing into the Ayleid stonework before Blackheart stopped his charge. He yanked it back out immediately, but his opponent had scrambled well clear and recovered. Roaring wordlessly, the Redguard attacked again, but this time the ex-Warder stood his ground. A powerful slash scythed into his stomach. The Akaviri-styled plate buckled and groaned, but held; the shield spell had prevented another scar appearing across his torso. Stepping inside the bandit lord's reach, the Orc wrapped his arms around him, driving the Thornblade up towards the back of his head.

In response, the bandit lord picked up Gorgoth and threw him across the chamber. The massive warrior-shaman left a large dent in the wall as he crashed into it, and fragments of rock rained down on him, bouncing off his magical shield as he struggled to his feet. He'd kept hold of both his weapons, but his enemy intended to give him no rest, dashing forward and swinging downwards. The Orc threw himself backwards, managing to tangle his legs with the Redguard's.

Blackheart came toppling down on top of him. His weight crushed the warrior-shaman to the ground, but Gorgoth bashed him in the side of the head with the hilt of the Thornblade before pushing the bandit lord off him. They got to their feet at the same time, the Redguard looking slightly unsteady. One look at his face confirmed it; his adrenaline rush was over. Fatigue would be weakening his body now, slowing his reflexes. The warrior-shaman was battered, but now he held the advantage.

The ex-Warder moved to take the initiative, a blow from Blood King almost ripping Sinweaver from his opponent's hands. It was the bandit lord's turn to be driven across the chamber, forced to defend every blow, not able to launch an attack of his own. He remained dangerous, however; an attempt to pin him by forcing Sinweaver above his head was countered by a kick to the abdomen that sent the Orc staggering back. Shouting a battle cry in his native tongue, the swordsman attempted to cleave his head in two. Gorgoth sidestepped and pushed past him, giving him a slash across the back of his thighs in passing. It was shallow, but the Redguard was bleeding.

Bellowing his own battle cry, Gorgoth hammered at Blackheart, one barely-blocked swing sending him staggering back halfway to the opposite wall. Before the bandit lord had completely recovered, the Thornblade had forced Sinweaver wide, leaving the swordsman truly vulnerable for the first time in decades. Blood King slammed into his torso, the sheer power of the mace smashing him into the far wall with enough power to shatter the stone.

One glance told the warrior-shaman all he need to know. Azani Blackheart was dead, his chest a shattered ruin. The back of his head was a bloody pulp where it had hit the wall, and his breastplate was crumpled beyond recognition. The flesh and bone underneath - what remained of it – would be barely recognisable as human. Sighing, Gorgoth sheathed his weapons before finally allowing himself to sag momentarily. Weariness from his earlier magical exertions combined with the fatiguing fight threatened to weaken him, but he forced himself to stand straight again. There was never a time for weakness.

Mazoga said nothing as she walked up to him. Maybe she couldn't think of anything. Instead, she threw her arms around him and kissed him with all the passion and fury that he'd come to expect from her. As his own arms wrapped around her, the warrior-shaman allowed himself a brief moment of relaxation as the taste of her tongue masked the stench of sweat and blood.

The sound of the door sliding open and approaching footsteps brought Gorgoth's head up, and he stepped back from Mazoga when he saw Modryn Oreyn stalking towards him with a face like a thunderstorm. His lover stubbornly kept an arm around his waist and glared at the Dunmer as he approached, but he either didn't notice it or ignored it completely. "You fucking idiot," he snarled, shaking a fist two inches underneath the warrior-shaman's nose. "He's the most dangerous man in half the province, and you go and fight a bloody duel with him. What the fuck were you _thinking_?"

"It was the most honourable way. He deserved it." Unable to fold his arms due to one of them still being wrapped around Mazoga, the Orc rested the other on the hilt of the Thornblade. "He is dead, and he died well. We have what we need. Why complain?"

The Dark Elf spluttered wordlessly for a few moments before throwing up his hands and stalking over to Blackheart's body, muttering under his breath. "There's gratitude for you," growled Mazoga, glaring at his back as he worked the bandit lord's signet ring off his finger. "How many of his lackeys would Blackheart have killed if you hadn't been around?" She snorted and moved in to kiss him again, but Gorgoth shook his head and walked over to the body.

Kneeling, he waved Modryn away and gently closed his old enemy's eyes. "He fought and died well," intoned the warrior-shaman. "He was a true warrior to his last breath. Malacath, watch over his soul." He reached over and worked Sinweaver's scabbard off the Redguard's back before looking around for the weapon itself. The claymore was lying on the floor, still appearing ominous despite the death of its wielder. Picking it up, the Orc hefted it, testing the weapon's weight.

"A fine weapon," he observed, gazing at the glowing blade for a few seconds before sheathing it and looking around the chamber, now filled with comrades who had fought and bled beside him. "There is still much work to be done," he informed them, his face as grim as ever. "We all know that Blackheart wasn't the true enemy." Modryn and the surviving Guildsmen exchanged glances, but they knew it to be fact. "We have removed a distraction, but there are other trials to face. Remain ready for them. There is much blood still to be shed."

* * *

**A/N: And there you have your chapter... just a few minutes before the end of 2011 (in England, at least). Now, short of something catastrophic like my arms falling off, I'm certain that Blood and Steel will be finished before we see the end of 2012. After that, you'll almost definitely be getting a Dark Brotherhood (Oblivion-spec) fic, a handful of oneshots, then a Skyrim fic. So many ideas, and no time to write them... well, I'll get there. For now, Happy New Year, and don't forget to leave a review.**


	40. Focus

**A/N: It's been almost a month since my last update... sorry about that. And I can't really offer any excuse, either. I just hope I can flog my dedication back into shape. More reviews would probably help, though. Speaking of reviews...**

**Underpaid Critic: Well, it seemed fine to me, but... that's me, of course. I can't look at it from a reader's perspective, which is why reviews are so important. And yes, the end is in sight, but... it's a long way off yet. A lot of things have to happen first. And you've got over a year at least before I start my Skyrim fic, so... plenty of time.**

**Rokibfd: Gorgoth does care about some few of his allies, but he'll rarely, if ever, let that interfere with his planning; he's merely making the best use of the resources he has to hand, and they're more valuable to him alive than dead. Caring doesn't enter his equation. As for Modryn... you'll see him again. The Fighter's Guild quest line is progressing, after all. And I doubt Gorgoth will let him miss the climatic battle... Bleh, hate typos like that. Changed it.**

**Random Reader: Yeah, a few hundred Dremora might not be too well received... besides, he'd struggle to summon more then twenty at once. And that could have worked, true, but he's sticking to his 'tried-and-tested' methods. As for Aerin, that's really the core of her personality. It'll take more than a near-death experience to knock that for long; she's had a few of them in the past. I'll keep it up, that's for certain. Abandoning it now would be a betrayal.**

**As always, thanks to those who reviewed. And, as always, I'll remind those who didn't review to do so in future. It can't hurt, surely...**

* * *

**Chapter Forty: Focus**

The small heap of black soil was still fresh, even several hours later. Lurog's hand smoothed the surface, the earth cold and wet under his rough green skin. There was no marker; Shagar's head would never be found again, but he would have no need of stones to remember him. Memories would be enough. The Orc had been a strong warrior and a worthy adversary; his soul would probably be resting easily in Aetherius, knowing that he had been defeated with honour.

Patting his cousin's grave one last time, the Orcish warrior rose and pulled on his gauntlets, looking up through the canopy of the Blackwood at the morning sun. It had been twilight when they'd emerged from Atatar the previous day; Gorgoth had wanted to pursue Burzukh immediately, but Glenroy had ordered him to stay as the Blades buried their dead. After a token argument, the warrior-shaman had obeyed – he had never been one to question a direct superior – but had taken the opportunity to retrieve Blackheart's body and cremate it on a funeral pyre along with his armour and what trophies the Redguard had kept with him in the Ayleid ruin.

They had set up camp near a clearing suitable for burial, and had worked through the night; twelve graves had been dug in a neat row, with carved stones marking their inhabitants. S'kasha and eleven Blades would never leave this place, but at least they were being honoured in death. Most of the Blades were busy paying their respects, so Lurog kept his steps as light as possible as he slowly walked past them to the camp. One, however, heard him and stood, blocking his path.

"How did he do it, Lurog?" demanded Callia, staring up at him with an expression that was a confused mixture of anger, shock, and sorrow. "How did he kill _four_ of us? When we knew where he was, what he could do..." Her voice trailed off, and she swept her free hand slowly over the graves. The other fist was clenched tightly around the hilt of her katana.

The Orc knew exactly what she meant. Do'kazirr, confronted with a squad of Blades along with Modryn Oreyn and Jongar, must have known that his end had come. Having fought him before, Gorgoth and his fellow Orcs had warned their comrades of the dangers the Khajiit posed, but he had still killed four Blades before finally being cornered and overwhelmed.

"He was a great warrior," replied Lurog simply. "Be thankful that your squad didn't come across Blackheart. He would have killed more than four." She sighed angrily and glared into the distance. The Orc put a hand on her shoulder. "You couldn't have done anything else, Callia," he told her. "If anything, I'm surprised you managed to keep the casualties so low. Good men and women were always going to die killing him."

She met his eyes for a second before grunting and brushing off his hand, moving to kneel at another grave. The warrior respected her desire for solitude and started off towards the camp again. It was smaller now; the Guildsmen had left earlier. Oreyn had been eager to publish the tale and discredit the Blackwood Company while restoring the Guild's honour, but he had at least paid his respects to every individual Blade that had fallen before making his exit. He was a hard man and a good soldier, that one.

Gorgoth, Mazoga and Glenroy were sitting around a small fire. The Knight Captain was wrapping the katanas of his dead comrades in a large cloth, presumably to tie to his saddle until they were returned to Cloud Ruler Temple. Gorgoth was examining the contents of one of the six massive chests that he'd extracted from Atatar using spells to reduce their weight. Modryn had promptly taken twenty thousand septims for the Guild, declaring that their coffers could use the money, but he hadn't argued when Glenroy had claimed the rest; the Blades had suffered badly. The Imperial had kept three of the chests, but had given Gorgoth ten thousand septims to do with as he saw fit.

At the moment, the warrior-shaman was dividing up his spoils into equally-sized sacks, the gold clinking as he poured it in. The complexity of the telekinesis he was using was far beyond Lurog, so he simply crouched down beside Mazoga, who was watching intently. "How much are we each getting?" he asked. He personally didn't care how much he got – he had plenty of money back in Orsinium due to his years as a mercenary under Gorgoth – but it was always good to know that you could afford another good horse if the need arose.

"Twenty-five hundred each," grunted Mazoga, a slight smirk tugging at her mouth. "Us three and Aerin. Gorgoth says Ilend's in the Guild, so he can go bugger Modryn if he wants some."

"He'll love that, I'm sure," muttered Lurog sarcastically as he eyed one of the four sacks his comrade was filling. The Imperial didn't seem like the type to serve just for money, but he might well raise a protest if his lover got a small fortune while he missed out. His mind turned to more important matters. "Are we likely to catch Burzukh?" He did not bear the same hatred for his former comrade that Gorgoth did, but he still wanted to see him dead; the best enemy was a dead enemy.

The warrior-shaman shook his head. "It is unlikely that we'll reach them before they stop near Bruma. If Ilend and Aerin can track them, however, we can defeat them before they can become a problem. They might even lead us to the Orcs that Burzukh already sent north." He finished dividing the coins and started tying the necks of the sacks. "I would still prefer to leave as soon as possible. The less time we waste, the better." His last statement was clearly directed in Glenroy's direction.

"Within the hour. We'll have finished paying our respects by then." The Imperial had finished securing the katanas and was rising to his feet, putting his helmet on. "I'd best go and say a few words. Morale's low." He nodded to them and walked off towards the clearing. Mazoga watched him go, some appreciation showing in her eyes.

"He hasn't been a captain for long, but he certainly knows what to do," she mused.

"You'd bloody well hope so," barked a harsh voice from behind them. Lurog and Mazoga spun to find Uriel Signus entering the clearing, making little noise despite his heavy chainmail. The grizzled Imperial walked with the dangerous grace of a wily predator despite his advancing years. "Given that they're meant to be the finest soldiers in the bloody Empire, you'd hope that they can at least choose their officers well." The mercenary squatted down by the fire, looking at each of them in turn, his tongue running over his crooked teeth. His sword had been returned to him, but their captive had elected to stick around instead of taking the freedom offered to him by Glenroy.

"Why are you still here?" growled Mazoga, glaring across at him as she rested her naked sword against her knees.

Signus spat into the fire. "Finding a good paying job this far south is a nightmare unless you're Company," he muttered. "And given that the Daedra seem to be so focused on fighting everyone, all the decent wars have dried up." He shook his head and spat again. "I'm here because I'm not sure where to go next."

"Why not fight the Daedra?" asked Lurog. "An experienced sellsword might find himself in demand in threatened areas. Which is just about everywhere."

The Imperial laughed bitterly and waved a dismissive hand. "I'll fight anyone within reason if the pay is good enough. Do pretty much anything as well. But I'll not fight _them_." He spat the word with such loathing that Lurog raised an eyebrow.

"Why not?" The Orc folded his arms and watched as the mercenary took the weight off his legs, settling to the ground. "Who better to fight these days?" Gorgoth had finished tying the sacks and was silently watching the Imperial with his typical unwavering cold gaze.

"I'd sooner jump naked into a bath full of blood-crazed slaughterfish than cross a Daedra," snorted Signus. He traced a hand over his chest. "I have a scar from here-" he tapped his right shoulder "-to here." He ran his hand across his torso, stopping under his left armpit. "Took one of my nipples off. Didn't get to a healer in time to fix the scar. A Dremora did that." The mercenary spat again. "Once was enough. I'd need a small fortune to fight one of those bastards again. It would be all right if they _died_, but... I know that smug git is out there right now, with that sword in his hand, and no matter what I do, I can't kill him."

"So you're a coward," sneered Mazoga, glaring at him with a look of contempt spreading across her features. Lurog sighed, closing his eyes. She always had been hasty. Not to mention fiery. But she was right, this time.

The Imperial snarled. "I am _no_ coward," he insisted, lurching to his feet and placing a hand on his sword. "I've fought in more battles than you've read about, girl. If you can even read."

"On the winning side every time," observed Gorgoth, putting up a hand to forestall his lover's furious reply. "You always made sure you were on the side with the clear advantage, I'm sure."

"You surrendered to Caroline when you still had some fight left in you, if Modryn was telling it right," added Lurog, rising to his feet. Signus glared at him and took a step back.

"And you refuse to even consider fighting Daedra just because some Dremora wounded you once," spat Mazoga, also rising. The sellsword's grey eyes flickered from one to the other, unsure.

Gorgoth smoothly rose to his feet, kicking soil over the fire to extinguish it but never taking his eyes away from the Imperial's. "It is not always the case, but sometimes men who fight only for coin think only of their own skins and run at the first sign of hardship," he grated, his voice hard as he stepped forward. Signus took another step back. "They don't think of their comrades, or their cause, why they're fighting. They don't think of hundreds of things that might help them, such as the strengths and weaknesses of the men at their side. They don't care about anything except their gold and their life." The warrior-shaman kept advancing, forcing Signus away until he backed into a tree. A conjured shortsword appeared in the Orc's hand and he plunged it into the tree an inch away from the mercenary's ear, watching him flinch away as fragments of bark hit his face.

"Give me a good reason why I shouldn't kill you, coward," growled the Orc, grabbing his victim's left shoulder and pressing him back against the tree.

There was fear in the Imperial's eyes as they met Gorgoth's, but his hands were steady and his back straight; he knew how to control his emotions, at least. "I can be of use to you," he muttered, his voice not as harsh at it had once been. He dropped his gaze to the warrior-shaman's throat.

"What use is a coward?" snorted Mazoga dismissively. She and Lurog had taken up positions just behind their compatriot's shoulders. "Kill this idiot. He's defiling the air that we're breathing."

"You can find a use for just about everything, if you know how," countered Lurog, looking sideways at her. "You found a use for Weebam-Na, if I recall." His fellow warrior snorted again and tossed her head, her multitude of braids flying in several directions at once. He often found himself wondering why she didn't wear war braids. She probably didn't want to have to cut her hair if she was ever defeated. It was just like Mazoga to get irrationally attached to something.

"Bravery is relative!" shouted Signus, raising a hand and tapping Gorgoth's breastplate. "Yes, I was always on the winning side, but what sellsword with sense would take the losing side?" He spat before glaring at Lurog. "Modryn didn't tell it right; a few more hits would have ended me. That girl's got a rare skill with a blade. I'm not about to throw my life away because it's _honourable_ to put death before capture." The Imperial shook his head again. "And I don't fight Daedra because the few who would hire me wouldn't pay well enough. Think about it." He snarled and pushed himself away from the tree, skirting around Gorgoth.

"The Counts and Countesses and rulers of cities have their guards. Farmers, hunters, everyone who lives outside their walls, they can flee into them. Villagers too stubborn to move can't afford me. The Legion is stretched, but not so desperate to hire mercs, and the treasury is empty anyway." The mercenary spat again and glared up at the warrior-shaman. "You call me a coward, but that's what _you_ think. You're Orcs. You think _different_." All the fear was gone from his eyes.

Silence fell. As he thought it over, Lurog realised that Signus was speaking some semblance of sense. Imperial sellswords would have none of the Orcish honour, and while that made them a target for contempt, it also made them easily misunderstood. Gorgoth, however, had clearly already worked that out. Maybe he had planned this all along. "Would you fight Daedra if your life depended on it?" the warrior-shaman asked slowly, his voice low.

The Imperial nodded. "Aye, I would," he replied. "I'd fight pretty much anything if my life depended on it. I quite value my life. You might have noticed."

Leaning forward, Gorgoth gripped the mercenary's shoulder. "Only a blind man could fail to see the signs, Imperial. With more Oblivion Gates opening every day, it's obvious that Dagon is increasing the pressure. If he ever succeeds, what do you think will happen to you? Will he spare you because you didn't fight him? No. He'll hunt you down and kill you for sport." He straightened and took a step back. "So your life does depend on it. We need every fighter we can get. Come to Cloud Ruler Temple with us."

Signus looked over his shoulder at the summoned shortsword still buried in the tree behind him. After a moment's thought, he turned back to Gorgoth. "You make it hard for me to refuse," he grunted. The warrior-shaman said nothing, waiting in silence. Lurog searched that impenetrable face for answers but, as usual, found none. He'd known Gorgoth for nearly a decade, but he was still a mystery to him all too often.

Eventually, the Imperial sighed and gave an almost imperceptible nod. "When do we leave?"

"Within the hour. Do not fall behind."

* * *

"They're camped just off the Yellow Road. They don't seem ta be leaving it in the daytime. Makes it easier for us ta track them, but harder ta keep up." Aerin paused to bite deep into the apple that Ilend had given her when she'd returned from her scouting. She'd have to go hunting soon; it had only been two days since they'd left Atatar, but the provisions they'd taken with them had been meagre.

"The Panther River's just to the north of us," muttered Ilend, frowning down at the map that he was struggling to read by moonlight. There was no fire; any light might have been detected by the Orcs, who had good eyes in darkness. The Bosmer had been tempted to complain, but the nights weren't so cold now that she was sharing her lover's blankets. The mere thought of it still brought a slight flush to her cheeks and an impish smile to her face. Ilend had refused to take her virginity until they were safe in a proper bed, but the mere warmth of sharing blankets was good enough for her for now.

He continued, probably unaware of the Wood Elf's straying thoughts. "We should cross tonight, before them. If Burzukh's smart, he might leave a guard. It's the only bridge across the Panther for miles, and I wouldn't fancy fording it in many of these places." His gauntleted finger swept across the tiny ribbon that indicated the river on his map. "I'll stay awake for two hours, then wake you for your shift. Then we'll move." His eyes met hers, awaiting confirmation.

"Sounds good," she murmured. They were sitting together under the same tree the horses were tied to, with their bedroll nearby. "I've ridden with Gorgoth enough times. I've mostly got used ta the lack of sleep." He laughed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her to him. The Imperial even slept in that chainmail these days, but it didn't matter; she could feel the warmth of him through the cold steel rings. "Do ya think Gorgoth's following us yet?" she asked, resting her head on his shoulder and holding the apple core up behind her head. A warm, wet nose tickled her fingers as Firebrand plucked the half-eaten fruit from her hand.

"He should be," responded Ilend, staring at his free hand without seeing it. She knew him well enough by now to know when he was in deep thought, only giving half his attention to the world around him. This was one of those times, it seemed. "You know how fast he rides."

She idly nodded, giving him a few minutes with his thoughts as she removed her gauntlets. "What are ya thinking about, guardsman?" she eventually asked, sliding her bare hand through his black locks to rub the back of his neck. He smiled.

"You," he told her, closing his eyes and sighing contentedly as her hand worked at what muscles of his neck she could reach. "We could really use someone like you in the Guild, you know."

Aerin laughed, lightly punching him in the ribs with her other hand. "Ya know, guardsman, weird as it was, I was expecting something... deep and contemplative, ya know? Like you were... meditating on the nature of my being. And then you come out with..." She dissolved into laughter, wrapping both arms around him. His smile grew broader as his hands stroked her hair.

"Well, it's true," he said defensively. "Besides, meditating on _you_ would be a waste of time right now. I think I'll need _years_ before I can understand you." Snorting, he shook his head. "Come on, now. You should be getting some sleep." He poked the bedroll with his foot.

She pouted, but he was right; neither of them had slept for nearly twenty hours, and it felt as though there were weights dragging down her eyelashes. Reluctantly, she detached herself from the Imperial and dragged their bedroll a bit closer to him so that he could sit up against the tree while still lending her warmth. As she was making herself as comfortable as she could under the thick blanket, a thought struck her and she turned to frown at Ilend's thigh, which was level with her head. "Could we... hold them at the bridge?"

Her lover raised an eyebrow. "And how do you propose we do _that_?" he asked, his voice laced with curiosity and some slight disbelief.

She sat up, tracing a finger over the massive recurve bow he'd taken from the Orc who had ambushed them at Atatar. It was a fine weapon, as tall as Ilend was, with immense range and power. Strong as he was, the Imperial could barely draw it, but he was a fair shot, and would outrange her by at least fifty paces despite Trueshot's enchantment. "The bridge is the only one for miles either way, ya said?" she asked. He confirmed it with a nod. "So, maybe... the two of us could stand at one end and block it with their bodies? I know I can get four, five shots off before they reach us."

For a moment, the Protector considered, scratching a jaw that was thick with stubble. Then he shook his head. "Even if we could slow then, Aerin... they outrange us, and I'm willing to bet that most of them are better archers than I am." He sighed. "It's tempting, but all Gorgoth told us to do was keep in contact with them. We'll leave the killing to him. It's what he's best at."

Aerin grimaced but accepted his wisdom, laying her head down on what passed for a pillow. She could feel the hard ground through the thin bedroll, but she'd slept far rougher than this before. "Besides," Ilend continued, "I get the feeling that Gorgoth might not be happy if we present him with Burzukh's head. I think he wants to settle matters personally." The Wood Elf murmured agreement, wrapping an arm around the Guildsman's leg and hugging it to her as she closed her eyes. He kept talking, but fatigue dulled her senses. She fell asleep with her cheek pressed against his knee, listening to the sound of his voice.

* * *

Cassandra Renault had been a Blade for nearly twenty years, so when her counterpart had come for her, she knew instantly from the look on his face that it was serious. She followed the Captain of the Temple Garrison to the small rooms of the East Wing, almost wishing he would break into a run. But Knight Captains of the Blades had to maintain their dignity, so he merely walked as quickly as he could. Even so, Renault was burning with impatience when she finally reached their destination.

Lucius Varo had been the resident battlemage of Cloud Ruler Temple for as long as she could remember. He was completely bald, and his face was lined and weathered with age – he had reportedly lived for over a century – but he was still fit and ready for whatever duty called him to do. He had always been reliable in the past, but now he was sitting on his stool with a look of dejection and resignation in his deep brown eyes. Rising to salute his superior, he found himself ignored as the Breton crossed the room in three quick strides to kneel beside the bed.

Jauffre, in contrast to the battlemage, looked the oldest she'd ever seen him. All the flesh was gone from his face, leaving skin stretched tight over gaunt cheeks. The fire was still in his eyes, however; he looked up and nodded in satisfaction when she leaned over him, taking his hand in hers. The flesh felt cold. "Good that you've come, Cassandra," whispered her Grandmaster in a voice as thin and brittle as old parchment. "Age always seems to creep up on you, then bite without warning." His wheeze might have been a bitter laugh.

"Is there anything you can do for him?" she asked Lucius, hastily blinking back tears. Her superior wasn't called Grandfather by the Blades for nothing; many of them held some kind of affection for the old man who had been Grandmaster for as long as most of them could remember.

The battlemage shook his head. "I can't cure old age, Captain," he muttered. "It's only a matter of time now. I'll do what I can, but..." he spread his hands helplessly. Steffan, standing beside Renault, sighed and also knelt. The Breton could almost physically feel the burden of command shifting onto her fellow Captain's shoulders.

Jauffre's hand gripped hers, bringing her eyes back to him. "I've still got enough strength to... do what has to be done," he rasped. "These will probably be my last orders." He paused, swallowing. "Steffan, you'll be Acting Grandmaster, speaking with my voice, until I pass on to Aetherius. Then you will lead the Blades." The Imperial nodded; he'd expected nothing else. "Remember..." the old man paused again, his breath rattling in his throat as his face took on a determined look. "Gorgoth must be released from his oath after Martin is crowned. But I... I have to speak to him first." He closed his eyes, looking pained.

"I'll send for him immediately," confirmed his successor, touching his fingers to his heart.

The Grandmaster opened his eyes again and looked at Renault. "You have done well with the... networks," he murmured. "But you are Captain of the Imperial Bodyguard, not the Spymaster. Recall Captain Cosades from Orsinium. He will relieve you and take his proper place."

She nodded, secretly pleased. Mostly, operating the extensive network of Blades spies had been a matter of following the notes and orders Caius had left for her when he had departed for High Rock some time ago on matters that required his personal attention. It had been complex work, however, his webs so intricate that they made her brain hurt. That man's plans would confuse Mephala, let alone a simple soldier. She'd welcome the return to her comparatively simple bodyguard duties. Jauffre was not finished, however.

"When the Emperor is crowned... take every Blade you can with him, apart from a handful to remain here. He _must_ be kept safe." The vehemence in the old man's voice didn't surprise her; this late in his life, he would not want to be remembered as the Grandmaster who'd let the last Septim die.

"He'll be surrounded by every Blade we can spare, Reynald," promised Steffan. "Any attackers will have to cut through over fifty of the best swords in the Empire."

Jauffre nodded, his eyes sliding shut again. "One last order," he whispered, his voice so weak that both Captains had to lean forward to hear him. "Do not make the mistakes that I did." His breath left him in a long, low sigh as he opened his eyes, looking at each of them in turn. "Go, and protect the Emperor," he ordered. They got to their feet, snapping to attention and delivering perfect salutes, fists to heart. He acknowledged them with a weak nod as his eyes slid shut again. Turning on her heels, Renault led the way out, only to be checked once again by the Grandmaster's voice.

"If he can be spared, send Martin to me. And do not... do not forget Gorgoth. I _must_ see him."

"I'll send messengers within the hour," responded Steffan. Jauffre nodded and closed his eyes. Lucius leaned over him and waved them from the room.

Once outside the sick room, Renault sighed and slowly put her helmet back on. Steffan waited for her, leaning back against the door frame and staring at the opposite wall, politely averting his eyes as she angrily brushed away the single tear that she'd let fall. There would be a time for mourning, but it was not now. "I suppose you'll have to name a new Captain of the Temple Garrison," she muttered, hoping to divert their minds.

The Imperial nodded. "Glenroy," he told her. "That's why I promoted him in the first place. To ease him into his rank before he gets the position." A small smile plucked at her lips. Steffan always had been one for rigorous preparation. "I'd better get Jauffre's orders carried out," he said, looking from side to side. They were alone in the corridor. "You'll want to send a message to Caius. It'll be good to see him again."

Her smile grew slightly wider as she started off towards the courtyard. Steffan fell in beside her. "It definitely will be," she said wistfully. "He won't have changed much. He never does." Despite his long absences from the Temple on official business with the more shadowy part of the Blades, both of them liked the old Imperial and the tales he brought back with him. Security prevented him from telling them everything, of course, but even so, they knew more about the Nerevarine than most of Morrowind.

In the courtyard, the afternoon sun was shining down brightly on the carpets of snow that would probably lie until spring came again. The Imperial stopped at one of the braziers, taking the time to warm his hands. Renault joined him, giving a pointed glance to the small huddle of Blades that indicated that the two captains wanted privacy. They reluctantly shuffled away to one of the other braziers, clutching their cloaks tightly around them.

"He always wanted to die in battle," said Renault softly, gazing into the brazier, the fire hot on her face. The new effective commander of the Blades didn't reply, instead staring bleakly into the distance.

* * *

The _clack_ of wood on wood echoed throughout the larger training room as Saliith launched another flurry of attacks on his latest opponent. He'd been sparring since he'd got up in the late morning, eager to prevent any dulling of his skills. A gladiator who let his training slip would pay for that mistake, and it would be the same for a soldier. And despite his known prowess, there was no shortage of Blades willing to try their hand against him, particularly as Lathar was on hand to bark obscenities at them every time they made a mistake.

Not that there were many mistakes; the Blades were the Emperor's sworn bodyguards for a reason. Several had pressed him hard, and he was willing to bet that some few could take on the entire Arena by themselves, one by one. He bore several bruises himself, but without fail he had given out more than he'd taken in every session so far. It gave him a sense of purpose; keeping himself honed was far better than sitting around doing nothing in this frozen fortress.

Of course, he hadn't been completely idle. Once, he had helped the Bruma Guard close an Oblivion Gate, and the exhilaration had immense after so much inactivity. But the Guard – its numbers now swelled by mercenaries and aid from the other cities – was now perfectly able to close isolated Gates with minimal losses. Even so, they were bleeding; it was only a matter of time before Dagon tried something else, and Bruma was still in peril. The worst thing was that Saliith couldn't do anything about their fate; the entire world depended on an ex-priest and the speed at which he could translate an evil book written by a Daedric Lord.

A wooden practice sword grazing his arm snapped his full attention back to the sparring. His opponent, a bulky Nord named Roliand, was stripped to the waist and already sporting two prominent bruises, but he was still fighting with relentless strength. Saliith himself was only wearing his ragged, dirt-stained tunic; he always believed that the increased pain was a greater incentive to stay untouched. He danced away from the Nord's second swing, avoiding the wooden sword-stick – longer than his two to resemble the difference between shortsword and katana – before dancing back into range, slashing with both weapons.

Roliand twisted, parrying one, but the other grazed his thigh with enough force to have been a distracting wound had the wood been steel. Staggering slightly, the Nord opened himself for a flurry of attacks, finding himself driven back across the training room until the Grand Champion brought both blades down simultaneously either side of his neck. The force of the blow sent him to his knees, and he dropped his sword, wincing as his hands found the painful-looking welts already apparent on his collarbone.

"You're a good one, Nord," remarked Saliith, lowering his weapons and helping the Knight Brother to his feet. "You almost killed me once. I just wore you down."

The Blade chuckled, shaking his head. "The Arena didn't stand a chance when you were unleashed, I can tell," he said, picking up his sword and throwing it in Lathar's direction. The grizzled Redguard caught it one-handed and rested it on his knees, looking around for anyone else willing to try their luck. There were over a dozen off-duty Blades in the training room, most already bearing bruises. They were likely working themselves hard to take their minds off their ailing Grandmaster.

"Not bad, Roliand, not bad," muttered the drillmaster. From him, that was high praise. "Try not to waste yourself too early."

"Why don't you try him, Lathar?" suggested on of the spectators, a mischievous grin appearing on his face. Lathar barked a harsh laugh and shook his head.

"I teach, whelp. I don't get taught." Looking at Saliith, the old Redguard snorted and lowered his voice, though everyone in the chamber could still hear him clearly. "They call me 'Leathertongue' when they think I'm not around," he growled. Some of the Blades had the good grace to look abashed. "Seems to me with both suit our names, lizard. I doubt anyone in this fortress could survive you, one-on-one."

"There _is_ someone, actually," announced a Redguard Blade named Cameron as he walked in, clad in full armour, clearly on duty. "Well, I'd assume the Grey Prince could at least survive his successor."

The Grand Champion's head jerked up and he dropped his practice blades. "Agronak gro-Malog is here?" he asked, shocked. He knew that Ysabel would be furious at his prolonged absence, but he'd never imagined that she'd be able to bully Agronak into fetching him.

Cameron shrugged. "I don't think Cloud Ruler Temple is hosting another pale half-Orc that's known to pretty much the entire continent," he remarked sardonically. "He's waiting in one of the communal areas. Wants to talk to you." He half-turned to the door, clearly waiting for Saliith to follow him.

"Let's hope he doesn't want to drag our favourite Argonian back to the Arena," observed Roliand as the lizard donned his scale armour and belted on his swords. It was always best to dress like going into battle when talking of Arena matters. "You're a good fighter, Saliith. You're a lot of use here. Maybe we could get Steffan to..." what the Nord wanted Steffan to do was lost as the Green Tornado strode from the training room.

Cameron led him to one of the small communal areas in the West Wing. "He wanted privacy," explained the Blade as he turned to stand guard beside the closed door, waving for the Argonian to enter.

Rolling his shoulders as though preparing to plunge into a swirling melee, Saliith pushed open the door and entered. Agronak was seated near the window, watching the midafternoon sun's reflections on the mountains to the west. He rose as his successor approached. The half-Orc had left his impractical Raiment of Valour at the Arena and instead opted for leather and furs, looking more like an Orc than ever. A small smile plucked at his lips as he firmly grasped his fellow gladiator's hand in greeting, his rough calloused skin grinding against the green scales. "Good to see you again, friend," he greeted.

"And you, Agronak," replied the Grand Champion, gripping his comrade's hand before releasing it. "Though I have to wonder what draws you to this Oblivion-scarred frozen wasteland."

"Well, I like to visit the north and feel the snow between my toes every so often," said the Blademaster, waving in the general direction of a chair before returning to his own chair. "The heat of the Imperial City might make me soft after a while. I'm more Orc than Imperial; we like the cold."

"You got that right," muttered Saliith, sinking slowly into a chair and manoeuvring his sword hilts out of his ribs. He could recall Gorgoth describing winter in Bruma as 'mild'. Orcs were mad, all of them. Even the half-breeds. "Not that I could ever see you as soft, Agronak. But I note you didn't answer my question." He leaned forward. "Do you find yourself wondering how Owyn ever put up with Ysabel?" he smirked.

The half-Orc grimaced. "That woman is... gah." He shook his head, his gaze drifting to the window again. "Yes, she's difficult to work with, but at least she runs the financial side of the Arena admirably. I can see why Owyn stuck with her... but yes, she did bully me into coming to bring you back."

"Will she skin you alive if you return empty-handed?"

"Most likely." A wry grin twisted Agronak's mouth, making his prominent Orcish canines seem even more fearsome.

"Well, I'm sorry to abandon you to that fate, my friend... but I have no intention of leaving this Oblivion-scarred frozen wasteland until the Oblivion Crisis is over." The lizard leaned back in his seat. "I have a purpose here. I might not survive, but at least I'll have died for something more than the love of a greedy mob who adore the Green Tornado but know nothing about Saliith."

The former Grand Champion gave his successor a searching, analytical glance. The Argonian shifted, slightly uncomfortable under the glare of that yellow gaze. Finally, the Grey Prince nodded slightly. "There was a time, once, when you'd have lived for nothing but that adoration," he mused. "You've changed, Saliith. Most of the gladiators at the Arena would call you a fool, and Ysabel would agree, but I've seen more than them." He closed his eyes and sighed. "I wish you the best of luck. I'll need some as well, to survive Ysabel when I get back. There's no sense in trying to persuade you to come back; you've moved on. While I might have killed hundreds, I'm not one to try and change your purpose."

Smiling gratefully, the Green Tornado rose to his feet, habitually running his hand over the throwing knives on his back. "Thanks. But you can do more than that." He crossed the room to stand beside Agronak's chair, looking with him out at the snow. "It's senseless that good warriors are killing each other for sport when men less skilled than them are dying in defence of the entire world," he rasped. "Stay here. Or, better yet, go then return with whoever you can convince to come. We'll need every good fighter we can get in the days to come."

The half-Orc smirked. "You sound like a doomsayer," he chuckled. Despite the levity of his tone, however, it was evident that he was giving the proposal much thought. His fingers rose up and unconsciously started to tap his canines. Saliith laughed.

"Gorgoth does that," he pointed out.

Raising an eyebrow, the Blademaster looked down at his fingers. "Does he?" he murmured. "Seems that me and him have a lot in common. I was hoping to speak to him."

"He's down south on Fighter's Guild business. Something about rooting out a bandit lord."

Agronak grunted in acknowledgement. "Let's say I put this proposal of yours to the gladiators," he said. "You're going to be in enough trouble as it is by refusing to return. Ysabel can't replace me as Blademaster, but she can try to have you deposed as Grand Champion. Knowing her, she would try."

Saliith snorted. "You'd block that. And so would any gladiator with a brain."

"Most of the gladiators don't even have half a brain. You should know that by now." The half-Orc grunted as though remembering something. "That reminds me. Those two young protégés of yours have joined up." Seeing the look of alarm on his friend's face, the Blademaster held up his hands to calm him. "Relax. I made sure they were good enough before letting them in. And I made sure they're both on the Yellow Team. No chance of-" He stopped short, but Branwen's name still resonated in Saliith's head.

"That's good," he rasped, moving quickly on to dispel any awkwardness. "It's good. They were always going to join some day. I hope I can see them fight at least once before I die. Or they die."

Agronak stood and looked him in the eyes. "You think you're going to die?" he asked.

Saliith nodded. "Probably," he confirmed. "Dagon's got a lot of armies. There's going to be a big battle at some point. And I'm going to be in it. I'm good, but anything could happen." He stepped forward and took the half-Orc's shoulder in an iron grip. "And that is why we need more gladiators," he grated. "Even a few dozen could make a big impact. See what you can do. Please." The last word came strangely to his tongue; politeness had been foreign in the Bloodworks.

The Grey Prince gripped his hand. "I'll see what I can do," he promised. "Don't expect anything. You know how Ysabel is." He gently removed the Argonian's hand from his shoulder and strode towards the exit, picking up his shield from where it had been resting against his chair. It was high-quality ebony, scarred and pitted by the blows of hundreds of weapons. "I'm staying the night in Bruma. I don't blame the Blades for not wanting a stranger here. It took more than just my reputation to get me in."

"Even if none of the others come... you'll be here, won't you?" asked Saliith, gazing intently into his friend's eyes. "When the time comes?"

Agronak returned his gaze levelly. "I promise that I'll do my utmost," he replied, before turning and leaving the Green Tornado alone in the room with the rays of the setting sun.

* * *

"The Corbolo's the last river between Burzukh and an uninterrupted road to the north," explained Ilend, rolling out his map and pointing out the relevant places, struggling to see in the dim lit of the early night's moons. "Again, this is pretty much the only bridge for miles, and fording points are miles downriver."

"And we're on the north side, and Burzukh isn't," pointed out Aerin, smiling. "Methinks I'll sleep more soundly tonight."

The ex-guardsman smirked and shook his head. They'd tracked Burzukh's group all through the last day, keeping in contact but never in sight, staying in the forest. When the Orc had finally made camp just off the Yellow Road, they'd sneaked past him and across the Corbolo. "He could still ride across in the night and hang your head from his saddle," he reminded her. "We'll keep the same watch as usual."

Sighing, the Wood Elf slid away from him and started unpacking their bedroll. "It's _me_ doing most of the scouting. I'm so_ tired_, Ilend."

He looked over at her. The riding had been hard, and there hadn't been much sleep available in the last few days. She _did _look tired, with dark bags under her eyes and shoulders that were slumped with fatigue. "All right, then," he sighed, recalling Savlian Matius's lesson about hardship and ignoring it. "You sleep. I'll take your watch for you."

She stiffened and muttered something under her breath before turning back to him. "No, no, no, you can't do that, it wouldn't be fair." She shook her head and tapped him on the nose. "You get some sleep. I'll take the first watch, don't you worry." Her tired smile turned into a curious grin as he started chuckling. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing," he laughed, gently punching her on the arm. "I just like your new-found sense of duty is all." He kissed her on the cheek and stood, walking over to check on the horses. Satisfied that they were well-fed and rested, he was stroking Javelin's nose when he felt her arms wrap around him from behind.

"Ya confuse me sometimes, ya know?" she told his back.

"And here I was, always assuming it would be the other way around, with you confusing me without fail every day," he replied, smirking and turning around to hug her. Her warm body was a welcome ward against the cold night air. "You know, I-" he cut off short, looking up, alert. Aerin detected the change and stepped away from him, her hand going to Trueshot as she, too, looked around for whatever had made the mistake of treading on a twig.

"You two could wake the dead, you know." The cool female voice came from the shadows beneath a stunted tree. Ilend gripped his sword hilt firmly as his companion removed her bow from her back, nocking an arrow. Neither made a move to attack, however; the voice was somewhat familiar, and definitely not Orcish.

"Show yourself," challenged Ilend, taking a step forward. They'd made camp in a tiny clearing, barely eight feet across, but there was plenty of room to swing his sword if he was in the centre of it.

The figure stepped out of the shadows and into the clearing. Masser was hidden by clouds, but as soon as the Protector saw Secunda's silvery light reflected off Akaviri-styled plate armour, he relaxed slightly. Behind him, he heard Aerin returning her arrow to the quiver on her hip. "Gorgoth sent you?" he asked.

Even in the low light, Callia's grimace at the mention of the Orc's name was evident. "He did," she grated. "I've got orders for you. Not sure what authority he has, but... I'd follow them if I were you."

The Imperial nodded, nodding to Aerin to resume setting up camp. "Of course. He's got authority because anyone with common sense follows a good leader. Where are his orders?"

Snorting, the Breton threw down her pack near their bedroll before leading her horse to tie him to a nearby tree. "You think _he _writes his orders?" she asked, contempt clear in her voice. "Even he can barely understand his own writing. No, he made me repeat them five times before he was satisfied."

"Get to the point," said Aerin sharply, sitting down on the bedroll. The Knight Sister took her own bedding from her horse and laid it out nearby before answering.

"We're camped close to Burzukh, just to the south. Gorgoth is going to attack him at first light. We're to hold the bridge. If any Orcs come across the river, you're to send the largest, brightest fireball you can into the sky as a message." The Breton removed her helmet and laid it down on her bedroll before loosening her hair. "Should be simple enough."

Aerin muttered something under her breath, presumably something about missing all the action after tracking Burzukh for days. Ilend knew, however, that after her last encounter, she wouldn't be eager to get to grips with any of his warriors any time soon. He nodded and walked over to their bedding, slumping down beside the Bosmer. "How long until dawn, roughly?" he asked, squinting up at the cloudy sky.

"About six hours. I'll take the first watch, if you like. You two look tired." There was no contempt in Callia's voice; it was clear that she knew the hardships sometimes faced by scouts. The Imperial smiled gratefully and started removing his gauntlets. "And if you, ah..." The Breton paused, looking up at Secunda. "If you two are in the habit of screwing every night, don't worry about it bothering me. I can-" Her rapid stream of words were cut short by Aerin's laughter.

"No, we don't," replied Ilend, rubbing his bristly upper lip in an attempt to hide his smirk. "Not yet, anyway." The Knight Sister mumbled something and rose to walk around the tiny clearing, putting her helmet back on. As his lover lay back on the bedroll, the Imperial finished with his gauntlets and was taking his bow from his back when his head jerked up.

Callia had heard it as well; one hand was in the air, signalling danger, and she had dropped to a crouch with the other hand on the hilt of her katana. Ilend nudged Aerin to rouse her and rose silently to his feet, pulling his gauntlets back on and checking his bowstring. The sound came again, clearer this time; the snorting of a horse was unmistakeable in this lonely part of the forest. Taking an arrow from his quiver – he'd taken the dead Orc's arrows as well as his bow – the Protector moved closer to the Blade, making sure he didn't tread on anything likely to make a sound.

Now voices were drifting through the trees; they were hard to pick out at this distance, but there was no mistaking the guttural, harsh language of the Orcs. Squinting but seeing nothing, the Guildsman beckoned to Aerin. "Do you see anything?" he whispered in her ear. Elves saw better in the dark than humans. Unfortunately for them, Orcish eyes were generally even better than Bosmeri eyes for that purpose.

She shook her head, eyes scanning the dark forest in the general direction of the voices. Callia's head was swivelling from side to side, her katana in hand. "Spread out," hissed Ilend. "They're mounted. In the thick trees, we can use that to our advantage." They nodded and peeled off to the left and right, leaving him to move cautiously forward with arrow nocked, peering around a thick trunk, attempting to see before he was seen.

Minutes later, as his eyes were starting to hurt from the effort, he glimpsed movement. A massive shape disrupted the murky blackness of the shadows as it moved towards him. As it moved closer, a gap in the canopy overhead illuminated the figure with silvery moonlight for a split second. The armour glinting off both Orc and horse finally convinced the Imperial that they were facing enemies; none of their Orcish allies had armoured mounts. More shadows moved forward to either side; two more mounted Orcs swam into his vision.

He was so tense that when the leader spoke, he almost dropped his arrow in shock. Willing his racing heart to slow, he focused on staying very still. There was no point in attempting to listen; Lurog had attempted to teach him a few words of Orcish, but the ex-guardsman never had been good with languages. He was good, however, with weapons, and his bow was powerful, the bodkin arrows designed to pierce armour. If he could get a shot off at close range, he might even stand a chance of penetrating the formidable triple-layered armour that Orcish warriors favoured. Only Trueshot, however, could be relied upon to penetrate those layers of boiled leather, heavy chainmail and thick steel plate. Fighting was inevitable; the Orcs were heading straight for them, and any attempt at flight now would only alert them.

Keeping his breathing slow and steady, the Protector took a step out from behind the tree's cover and raised his bow, arrow half-drawn. The enemy was now barely twenty paces from him; they would see him within seconds. Briefly, he considered a fireball, but despite his training, his pool of magicka was still pathetically tiny, so any spell he could conjure was unlikely to be powerful enough to do much damage beyond the plate armour. Instead, he waited.

The Orc in the centre spotted him almost instantly, and shouted a warning, spurring his horse towards the Imperial as he raised a large war axe. Ilend waited as long as he dared for the range to close before firing. The arrow took the massive figure in the shoulder, unbalancing him slightly but doing no other visible damage. The Protector dropped his bow and rolled out of the way, coming up with longsword in hand as the horse and rider swept past him. A scream and a crash to his right informed him that one of the Orc's horses had been killed; that had likely been Aerin's work, as the plate armour of their steeds was even thicker than that of their riders.

Pushing everything else to the back of his mind, the Imperial whirled and looked for his attacker. Unable to manoeuvre quickly due to the trees, the Orsimer had already dismounted and was advancing towards him with axe and shield at the ready. Moving to meet him, the ex-guardsman took his own shield from his back and adopted a combat stance, sword held high. "Come and get it, you bastard," he growled. His opponent snarled something in his native tongue and advanced.

The axe was a heavy weapon, with a single cutting half-moon blade balanced by a large spike, but the Orc swung it with speed and precision that made the weight seem inconsequential. It was clear that the arrow in his shoulder hadn't penetrated his armour. Ilend ducked low under the slash before surging forward with a thrust of his own. The Orsimer bashed the longsword aside with his shield and aimed a kick at the Imperial's midsection, but he was already moving backwards out of range, shield raised high to catch an overhead axe blow. The attack was so powerful that it penetrated the painted steel, jarring his entire body, but his shield had done its job; the axe was lodged in the centre of the two moons.

Forcing his opponent's weapon arm to the side, the Imperial darted forward, feinting high to draw up his shield before stabbing downwards at the hip. Twisting at the last second, the Orc managed to avoid a serious wound as the Daedric steel scraped ineffectively across his armour. Twisting the other way, he wrenched his axe free with enough force to send them both staggering to the side. The Protector managed to recover first and stepped within the Orsimer's reach, close enough to feel his enemy's hot breath through the mouth-hole of his helmet, before driving his sword upwards with all his strength. His opponent was too slow to react as the blade punched through his chain gorget and through his throat, the attack delivered with enough power to drive the point of the blade out the back of his neck.

Leaving his weapon where it was, Ilend released the hilt and leapt backwards to avoid the Orc's desperate swings as he started to choke on his own blood. As the mortally-wounded Orsimer charged one last time, the Guildsman sidestepped and simply stuck out a leg, bringing his opponent down with a crash that would probably be heard half a mile away. Crouching down over his foe's back, he swiftly drew his dagger, cut the straps of the Orc's helmet, wrenched it off and drove his dagger up into the base of his skull. The mighty elf's struggles ceased.

Rolling the corpse over to retrieve his longsword, the Imperial finally allowed himself to hear what was going on around him. The clash of steel on steel was going on somewhere behind him, but few other sounds resonated through the forest. "Aerin?" he shouted, rising to his feet with bloody sword in hand. "Callia?"

A rustling brought his head around, and he raised his shield before relaxing as Aerin left the shadows, walking cautiously up to him with an arrow nocked to her bowstring. "That bugger died easily enough when he was trapped under his own horse," she muttered, nodding behind her. "Sounds like Callia's still got problems, though. Head out?"

He nodded and started moving towards the sounds of battle, keeping an eye out. The last thing he wanted was to come upon them suddenly and have his head chopped off by a stray blow. It was Aerin who saw them first, pointing to shadowy shapes moving about forty paces away. Ilend increased his speed to a jog, hoping that the Orc's focus would be on Callia and not on the snapping twigs behind him.

The dismounted enemy was driving the Breton before him, his battleaxe more than able to penetrate her armour, but the experienced Blade wasn't giving him an easy opening. She sidestepped and ducked around blows, placing her feet quickly but carefully, not giving that mighty axe head a chance to break her shield or armour. Ilend stopped within five paces of the Orc, his blade raised and ready to stab upwards into his back, but he hesitated. Stabbing people in the back wasn't something he was accustomed to; it had always been looked down upon in the Watch. However, the ex-gladiator next to him had no such compunctions, sending an arrow into the back of the elf's head.

Callia breathed a heavy sigh of relief, relaxing as her opponent crumpled to the ground. "They hit hard, these Orcs," she observed, grimacing at a massive dent in her shield. The Guildsman could tell that his own shield was in no better shape, but at least it was still largely in working condition.

"There could be more around," grunted Aerin, returning Trueshot to her back. "They must have seen you when you crossed the bridge."

"Or Burzukh's had his suspicions all along," responded Ilend, cleaning his blade with leaves from a nearby tree. "Either way, we've got to stay alert. Should I go to the road and send the signal?" Orcs had, after all, crossed the river. If Gorgoth made his attack in the morning as planned without knowing, his entire plan might be altered by the three missing Orcs.

Callia was shaking her head as she started to lead the way back to their camp. "No. That'll just alert Burzukh and he might move across the river. He could head anywhere from here. We might not get a better opportunity." She sighed and flopped down on her bedroll as soon as they reached the tiny clearing. "I've got to head back and warn him."

Aerin looked critically at her. "You'll never get back across the bridge. He'll have guards, for sure."

"I never said anything about the bridge." The Breton sighed and removed her helmet. "I'll have to swim. The Corbolo's not fast-flowing at this point, and Burzukh won't be watching the banks. And I'm the only one here who knows where our camp is."

"Swim? In that tin suit?"

The Knight Sister gave the Bosmer a withering glare. "Of course not. I'll have to leave my armour, horse, and supplies here. The message has to be delivered, though..." she sighed and started pulling off her gauntlets.

Ilend rubbed his upper lip, thinking. She was right, he realised. A message had to be delivered, and the bridge couldn't be risked. Even so... "You might freeze," he warned. "I know this isn't the north, but it's still nearly winter."

Callia shrugged. "I'm a Blade," she told him, beckoning for him to help with her armour. "We don't swear our oaths and expect easy lives."

He sighed as he tugged off her pauldron. "I should go with you. Two has a better chance of getting through than one, and I'm a strong swimmer."

"Two also run a greater risk of being detected." The Breton smirked as she unstrapped her greaves. "Besides, I don't think Aerin would like being parted from you for too long." The mentioned Wood Elf snorted and moved away to check the horses.

"Fine. But what should we do if you don't return? Stick to our orders?"

"Exactly. Watch the bridge." They finished removing her cuirass and Callia stood, unarmoured save for her boots. Her linen vest and cloth trousers might not keep much of the cold out, but at least they were lighter than steel plate. She'd kept her sword belt, as well; if she was detected, it would be far better to face an Orc with her katana rather than with her bare hands. "Come on. Best not waste any time. I'll bet that it won't be long before those Orcs are missed."

Leaving Aerin in charge of the camp's defence, with an arrow nocked to Trueshot, she and Ilend made their way down to the banks of the Corbolo, about a mile and a half upriver from the bridge. Sand crunched underfoot and mudcrabs scurried out of their way as they made their way down the rocky shore to the water's edge. Goose pimples were already evident on Callia's bare arms, and despite what Ilend guessed were her best efforts, she couldn't conceal her shivering. "I'll admit that I don't envy you," he muttered as they reached the wet sand.

She growled something under her breath and sat to remove her boots. The Imperial removed a gauntlet and bent to test the temperature of the water. He shuddered and removed his hand quickly. "It's icy," he reported. "Best to keep active when you reach the far bank, or the cold will kill you quicker than the Orcs."

"I know how to deal with cold, Guildsman," growled the Blade through gritted teeth. "I've been stationed at the Temple for two years. You learn something about cold up in the Jeralls." She grimaced down at her vest. "Wish I'd worn something warmer."

"You can have my shirt, if you want," suggested Ilend, his hands going to his chainmail. She shook her head and started off towards the river, a determined expression on her face. "Good luck," called the Imperial. She raised a hand in acknowledgement before entering the water. He walked down to the edge until the river was lapping at his boots, watching her until she appeared to reach the far side. It was hard to tell in the gloom; the clouds had by now covered most of Secunda, so the only light came from the stars.

He waited until he could make out a pale, slim figure running across the far shore before relaxing. When she was out of sight, he turned, collected her boots and headed back towards the camp, his eyes heavy with fatigue.

* * *

The Yellow Road was dark; clouds covered the night sky from horizon to horizon. This darkness, however, was no obstacle to any company that included one of the most powerful Illusionists in Tamriel in its number. The spells of night vision that Gorgoth was maintaining on each of them meant that they could see as well in the dark as any Khajiit. Callia's return half an hour ago had spurred them all into action; when Burzukh started to suspect that his scouts weren't coming back, he would take action, and the warrior-shaman wasn't about to let his old enemy slip through his fingers again.

He'd left Callia behind at the campsite with a fire, Lurog's fur cloak, and Caroline to keep her warm. The Breton had come back to them just as the second watch was starting, soaking wet and half-frozen, but what she'd said had been lucid enough. It hadn't taken him long to reach his decision, and there had been minimal grumbling when he made the order to strike camp and prepare for battle. Not that he was planning on a large battle; there was no need to risk the lives of his fellow Blades in this personal dispute. If need be, he could kill Burzukh and all his men by himself.

"Light the torches," he ordered. He wanted Burzukh to know they were coming, even if his sentries were too lazy to spot an armed company on horseback riding up the Yellow Road at a fast trot. "We'll be there soon. Remember what I told you all." He dispelled his Illusion as the first torch was lit.

"So, what's your plan?" asked Mazoga, riding by his side. Lurog was up ahead, scouting the road ahead.

"You would approve of it, given how you dealt with your own problem." Calmly walking into a camp and slaughtering everyone in it sounded like an attractive prospect, but only one of those Orcs had to die today. If the rest wanted to see another sunrise, the decision would be theirs. And that decision would come soon; a fire was now visible through the trees. Burzukh had clearly camped just off the Yellow Road, as predicted. One of many mistakes.

As they drew closer to the fire, Gorgoth called the Blades to him before telling them not to get involved unless they were attacked. Then he rode slowly forward with Mazoga and Lurog before stopping and conjuring a light far above their heads, powerful enough to illuminate the area for a mile around them. Finally, he dismounted and handed Baluk's reins to Lurog before stepping forward and drawing Sinweaver, settling down to wait.

It took about five minutes for Burzukh and all eight of his surviving Orcs to appear. When their leader saw Gorgoth standing alone with the Ayleid-forged claymore in one hand, a look of knowing spread across his ruined face. He dismounted and threw his reins to one of his comrades before drawing his own battleaxe and advancing across a landscape that was bathed in an unearthly glow, making it seem like it was day. He stopped a few paces from his old enemy.

"Looks like you finally caught up, Bastard," spat the scarred Orc, his single eye full of malevolence under his battered helmet. He was speaking in his heavily accented Common Cyrodilic, no doubt due to the non-Orcish audience.

"And you have no poison this time." The massive head of the battleaxe was dry; clearly, Burzukh hadn't thought to bring any Silencing poisons with him. "This time, justice _will_ be done."

The warrior spat onto the dusty stones of the Yellow Road. "_Justice_?" He barked a harsh laugh and looked around behind Gorgoth, at the Orcs, at the Blades. "All this time, and he's still been deluded by what his pathetic father told him." He shook his head before snarling. "No, all this petty fool wants is revenge. Do you lot even _know_ what he wants to kill me for?"

Gorgoth took a step forward. The Blades didn't know the history between him and Burzukh, but it wouldn't hurt to tell them. "I know that you insulted the King, murdered good Orcs, gave in to your savage side. I know you betrayed me, Burzukh. I called you brother once." His lip curled into an unconscious snarl. "You have no honour."

"I shit on your honour, you servile cur," growled his old enemy. "Pitiful that you forgot all the shamans taught you about Malacath. You know that he gives glory to the strong, and despises the weak." The Orc spat again. "I never defied Malacath."

"You're wrong," the warrior-shaman told him, his voice dangerously low. "You didn't prey on the weak. You preyed on _everyone_." He raised his voice, to give the listening Blades the full story. "Good, honourable Orcs were murdered by you and your bandits. You preyed on every trading caravan, every merchant that you could find." He shook his head. "Preying on weak, deserving merchants is good in Malacaths's eyes, but you went too far. And when the king ordered you to stop, you defied him."

"Lies," snarled Burzukh, shaking his head. "Lies spread by weaklings and your father. You just wanted an excuse to put me down."

"I already had several. There was no need to create another."

The scarred warrior snorted. "Yes, I'll admit that. Tell me, when you found that friend of yours in the caravan, did he beg you to end his pain?" His yellow eyes were full of hatred and mocking, but Gorgoth refused to let that affect him. Grat gro-Burug had been a good Orc, a strong warrior. Burzukh and his bandits had attacked the merchant train he'd been defending and cut off Grat's legs, leaving him to his fate.

"He did not have to beg. I allowed him his last words then ended his existence for him."

Burzukh sneered. "What did he say?"

"He made me swear on my honour to avenge him, no matter how long it took." The warrior-shaman hefted Sinweaver, his strength meaning that the claymore was perfectly weighted for one hand. "This is the day you die, Burzukh. You were never truly my equal, even when you had both your eyes." The blade seemed to shimmer, the dark red glow waxing and waning. For the first time, fear became evident in his enemy's eye. He'd probably known all along that he was going to die here, but now he was finally recognising that.

"Fine." The Orc spat onto the stones before taking his battleaxe in both hands, barking an order for his men not to interfere. Gorgoth stepped forward, casting a shield spell to augment his battered Akaviri-styled plate armour. His enemy was in full Orcish battle armour, all three layers, but that wouldn't save him. Sinweaver shimmered again, the blade seemingly drinking in the light of the bright globe above.

The warrior-shaman made the first move, darting forward with the claymore thrusting upwards. Burzukh moved to block, but Gorgoth grabbed the haft of his battleaxe in his free hand and wrenched it aside, forcing his opponent to jerk sideways to avoid the thrust. He stubbornly kept hold of it, moving in and smashing his forehead down into the Orc's face. The helmet split his skin, but his enemy was momentarily stunned, giving the warrior-shaman enough time to kick him away and swing at him from the right.

With his left eye missing, the scarred warrior couldn't anticipate the blow as quickly as he could have done in the past. He barely managed to block it with the steel haft of his battleaxe, and was still reeling when the next attack came, again from his left. The Orsimer was driven back across the Yellow Road towards his own comrades, who urged their horses aside to make room for the duel. Unlike their leader, they at least appeared to have some shred of honour; none were making a move to interfere.

Stopping his retreat, Burzukh ducked low under a swing and swung for his assailant's legs. Gorgoth was prepared for such an attack, however; it had been a blow like that which had splintered his shin in their last battle. He span to the side and thrust sideways. His opponent rolled forwards, Sinweaver merely grazing his steel plate. Before he could fully recover, the warrior-shaman was on him again, Ayleid blade cleaving towards his left shoulder. The attack staggered him, but failed to penetrate, and he dug in his heels to meet the next swing, catching the blade with the head of his battleaxe and twisting, attempting to pry the weapon away from his enemy.

The warrior-shaman gave him no chance; he kicked twice at his enemy's leg, sending him to one knee, before tearing the claymore free and striking at Burzukh's arm. The armour absorbed the blow but forced the Orc's defence aside, leaving him vulnerable. Gorgoth wasted no time in putting all his strength into a two-handed slash that tore his old comrade's head from his shoulders. The headless corpse slumped backwards as the head bounced and rolled across the Yellow Road, finally coming to a halt when Lurog dismounted and stopped it with his boot.

It was done. Gorgoth felt nothing; there was no place for emotion in his life, no place for any weakness. He was steel. Burzukh had been a comrade once, a brother to him, but any pain, hatred or anger he might have felt had been ruthlessly suppressed. He had no time or use for needless emotions, just as he had no time or use for petty distractions in these times of need. Petty distractions such as a desire for vengeance amongst Burzukh's minions.

With thick Orcish blood still staining his blade, the warrior-shaman turned and coldly regarded the eight surviving Orcs. "You served him. Are you like him?" He moved towards them, holding each gaze for a few seconds. "You served him, and I will not trust you, but killing you would gain me nothing." Raising Sinweaver, he pointed it at each of them in turn. "There are still battles to be fought, battles far more important than any dispute between mortals." He grounded the ancient Ayleid claymore in the ground in front of him. "Get down on your knees and swear your lives to me, or I will kill you."

For several long moments, the only sound was the rustling of the wind through the trees and the snorting of horses. Then, one by one, the Orcish warriors dismounted and knelt, bowing their heads and laying their weapons at his feet. As they muttered their oaths and sealed them with their blood, Gorgoth knew that they were his.

* * *

**A/N: And another enemy bites the dust... not many left now. Well, at least, not many that you know of. In any case, hopefully I can get the next chapter written faster than this one. Keep in mind that pretty much any review - one-liners included - will encourage me, so I'll encourage you now to leave one. It can't hurt. And constructive criticism is always a good thing; if you don't point out where I'm going wrong, then I'll find it very hard to improve. If you want my quality to increase, tell me what I'm doing wrong. I'm far from perfect...**


	41. The Growing Darkness

**A/N: What's this? Yes, it's a new chapter less than two weeks after my last update. Shows what I can do when I finally get my lazy arse in gear... not that the lack of reviews helped, however. Only five for Chapter Forty? Get them written, people, you know how much I want them.**

**Underpaid Critic: Ah, yes, them. They might not be all that welcome... but you know what I mean. Reviews such as 'I like this' are fine as they encourage me. And I wouldn't set a target chapter; given that my intentions change with every chapter, it might well limit me, or I could end up having to write pages just to fill empty space. It'll end when it ends (hopefully sometime soon; much as I love BaS, my other projects are growing restless).**

**Rokibfd: Indeed, not hiring a few Guildsmen is a tad unrealistic, so expect that to change. As well as other things. As for Jauffre... well, read on and you'll see what happens to him. And yes, Gorgoth is more than capable of teaching magic, but the Blades aren't capable of learning. Apart from Lucius, Caroline has about the best magical ability of them, and all she can cast is a pathetically weak frost spell. Teaching is fine, but if you don't have any magical ability, then you can't be taught. And most people in the BaS universe don't have that magical ability... adds to the realism.**

**Hopefully, the next chapter will be up just as quickly as this one, but don't get your hopes up. Also hopefully, I'll get some more reviews for this one...**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-one: The Growing Darkness**

The ride from Bruma to Cloud Ruler Temple was a short one, but Gorgoth had already counted the charred remains of three Oblivion Gates within sight of the road. Captain Burd had told him that a total of nine had now been closed, including two that had opened within an hour of each other. The Daedra were growing more persistent, and the Mythic Dawn seemed to be perfecting their end of the gate-opening process. It wouldn't be long before a Great Gate was opening, and then Bruma would bleed heavily.

There would be no repeat of Kvatch, however; Burd had new recruits swelling the numbers of the Bruma Guard to nearly eight hundred, and if he introduced conscription he could more than double that. Even so, the Guard was not alone; mercenaries were always drawn by conflict, and other cities had already sent contingents from what they could spare from their own garrisons. Oblivion Gates were appearing all over the country, but Bruma undoubtedly had the greatest need. The city was teeming with soldiers, and some citizens had even formed a militia that could act as a last resort if required.

In the two days of slow riding since they'd left the Corbolo, he'd taken the time to get to know each of the Orcs he'd taken from Burzukh. A blood oath was something no Orc took lightly, but if he knew his men, he could at least decide whether to trust them or not. They were all good warriors, and would be valued in the days to come, but he wouldn't trust them at his back for some time yet. He'd given Lurog authority over them and told him to find them accommodation in Bruma; they wouldn't be welcome in Cloud Ruler Temple. Uriel Signus had also opted to try and find a room in the already overcrowded city, as had Ilend and Aerin, though for very different reasons.

That left him with just Mazoga, the Blades who had survived Atatar, and a messenger who'd met him on the road, summoning him to the Temple to speak with Jauffre. The Grandmaster was dying, apparently. Gorgoth wasn't surprised; he'd been old already, and the stress of the unexpected crisis disrupting his semi-retirement had aged him rapidly. He didn't waste time on wondering what the old Breton wanted with him; there were far more pressing matters at hand. As they rode up to the foot of the massive gates to the Temple, the Orc twisted around in his saddle and looked around. From this high vantage point, he could see the remnants of four Gates, all closer to Bruma than the Temple. It was a logical move; if Bruma fell, then Dagon's fiery fist would have no obstacle when he descended upon the home of the Blades.

The gates swung open, and the warrior-shaman dismounted to walk Baluk up the steps as the party fragmented, each going their own way. Shading his eyes from the bright afternoon sun as he led his mare to the stables, the Orc barely saw Captain Renault until the Breton was falling in beside him. "Gorgoth, Jauffre wants to see-"

"I know. I got the message."

"There was also a letter from Modryn Oreyn. I left it in your chambers." Gorgoth nodded in acknowledgement and she left him and Mazoga alone as they entered the stables, presumably to go and check on the returning Blades. No doubt the entire Temple would be affected by their heavy losses, but they would know how to cope with the death of friends by now. The war had long since affected them all.

"It'll be good to sleep in a bed again," grunted Mazoga as she stretched her legs before attending to her horse. "It's always better with your clothes off. Back in the bedroll you wouldn't even remove your-"

"I'm not likely to leave myself so vulnerable simply because I'm thinking of your cunt rather than my own weaknesses," responded Gorgoth, eyeing her levelly across Baluk's back. She glared at him before dropping her eyes and focusing on her work, muttering under her breath. He finished unsaddling his mare and moved around her, idly patting her a few times and observing some of the returning squad of Blades enter the stables. Lowering his voice, he moved closer to Mazoga. "Jauffre or Modryn might call me away from the Temple, but you'll have a good night tonight. I can promise you that." She deserved at least that much for staying with him despite knowing that he would willingly sacrifice her should the need arise.

Before his lover could respond, the Orc had turned and left the stables, leaving instructions to the ostler to have Baluk well fed and watered. The messenger had told him where to find the Grandmaster, and it didn't take him long to find the right room in the East Wing. He entered after knocking and marched to the foot of his superior's sickbed, snapping to attention and saluting. "You sent for me," he stated.

The old, withered Breton weakly raised his head to gaze at the Orc with eyes that still retained something of their former sharpness. "Leave us, Lucius," he told the battlemage sitting on a chair next to the bed. Jauffre waited until the door had shut behind him before sighing. "Sit, Gorgoth," he whispered, letting his head settle back on his pillow.

Carefully easing himself down into Lucius' chair, the warrior-shaman waited until the creaking had stopped before leaning forward over the Grandmaster to better hear his strained voice. "I want to set the record straight," he rasped. "Put everything... behind us. I want to die with... with few regrets."

"Die with no regrets," rumbled Gorgoth. "All regret is pointless. You cannot change the past. Stop thinking you can."

"Ah... we're not you, Orc. We're only... human." The Breton coughed before a wry smile stretched his lips over his skull. "I talked to Martin. I managed to make him agree to... release you from your oath... if you were willing." His eyes narrowed. "I hope I have judged you correctly, Gorgoth. I hope you will not stay on as a Blade after... after this is over."

The warrior-shaman shook his head. Martin would have no need of one extra Blade after the main danger had past. The Orc had unfinished business at home, not to mention his new-found attraction to the Cyrodiil Fighters Guild. "You need not worry, Jauffre," he told the Grandmaster. "When the Emperor no longer needs me, I will lay my katana at his feet. I swear it." His fingers touched his heart briefly. The Breton might not like him, but even he would understand that his word was unbreakable.

Sighing in relief, the old man let his eyes shut briefly before opening them again, focused on his Blade's face. "I hate you, Gorgoth," he murmured. "I hate you for what you are, what you did. You feel no remorse. You don't even think what you did was _wrong_." His mouth twisted in distaste. "I would never have offered you your katana if I'd known," he sighed, head falling back to his pillow once again. "I will hate you until my dying day for what you've done and will probably do again. Yet..." The Breton coughed weakly before mouthing words too quiet for the warrior-shaman to make out.

Looking up, he noted a pitcher of water and poured some into a nearby glass, holding the liquid to the old man's lips until he was waved away. "Yes," he continued, his voice stronger. "I hate you, but I should not have acted as I did. I was... unprofessional. You are a soldier under... under my command, and you deserved... better." As ever, the Orc's face was a stoic mask, but under the surface he was remembering everything Jauffre had ever said to him since he'd learnt of his past. Yes, he'd been confrontational, unprofessional, insulting... but Gorgoth could see why. Bretons were not Orcs; the differences were all too evident.

The Grandmaster was still talking. "You were right, Orc. We need you. We have to value what we have. I know I could not be expected to... to like you, but... you deserved better. Please..." He cleared his throat. "Forgive me."

Gorgoth leaned back in his chair and studied the dying man in front of him. Forgiveness was not something he had much experience of; most people who had crossed him were now dead or bearing scars. But most of those had not asked for his forgiveness, and none had ever been the Grandmaster of the Blades. He leaned forward again. "How much longer do you have to live?" he asked.

"No idea. Lucius thinks no more than a few days." Jauffre's voice was a weak rasp.

"It was always your wish to die in battle, fighting Dagon."

The Breton managed a bitter laugh. "I can barely grip my katana, let alone swing it."

In response, Gorgoth stripped off a gauntlet and laid his naked hand against the Grandmaster's clammy forehead. "Your battlemage does not know fortification like I do," he muttered. "I can get you up and fighting. I can give you strength and agility. I can make you feel as though you were in your prime again... more or less." Sharp blue eyes found his and held his gaze; yes, there was still fight left in the old man yet. "It would use up what little life you have left. You probably wouldn't see another sunset after today's... but there are Oblivion Gates opening near Bruma nearly every day now."

Jauffre's eyes were wide. "Is this some cruel joke?" he whispered, peering up at the Orc, full of hope.

"I do not make jokes." The warrior-shaman leaned closer. "Grandmaster, if you die in battle, I will forgive you. And you yourself will always prefer to sell your life dearly. I know it."

The Breton held his gaze for a long moment. "Call Lucius."

As the battlemage dutifully responded to Gorgoth's shout, Jauffre sat up with the Orc's arm around his thin shoulders. "My armour and dai-katana, Lucius. Be quick about it." Some of the old strength had returned to his voice; Gorgoth did not believe in hope, himself, but he did acknowledge that it awoke great power in some.

The old Imperial didn't question his superior's commands, but his expression was one of bemusement as he left the room. Jauffre had clearly already dismissed the battlemage from his thoughts, however; he had closed his eyes and was breathing deeply. "Do it," he ordered.

Resting his naked hand on the Breton's forehead, Gorgoth let his magicka flow from himself into his Grandmaster, probing his body, feeling the terrible strain and weakness. He closed his eyes to better imagine his complicated work; this was complex Restoration, more difficult than his normal fortification spells. His magicka started pumping through the ravaged body, strengthening it, magical forces taking the place of muscles that had long since wasted away. Jauffre's eyes opened wide and he gasped as he felt invigoration and strength replace what had moments ago been bone-weary fatigue.

Removing his hand, the warrior-shaman rose and stepped back. "It would be wise to take a few minutes to get used to the feeling," he advised. "You are strong and fast now, where seconds ago you were bedridden."

"I only hope none of my skill with a blade has deserted me," grunted the Grandmaster, his voice now full of strength as he swung his legs to the floor and stood awkwardly, looking down at himself with curiosity. He was naked, with the wasted body of an old, dying man; his ribs were visible, his limps almost atrophied in appearance. Everywhere, his skin was tight and drawn over a bare skeleton. Yet he would now be as strong as he ever had been for as long as Gorgoth maintained the spell. He was stretching, testing unused muscles, when Lucius and Captain Renault appeared with his clothes, weapons and armour.

"Don't look so shocked, Captain," chuckled Jauffre as he pulled on a pair of trousers. "You should know by now what Gorgoth is capable of."

The Knight Captain closed her mouth – which had dropped open in astonishment – and looked from her Grandmaster to the warrior-shaman and back again. "Has he... healed you?" she asked tentatively.

Gorgoth shook his head. "I cannot extend or preserve his life. All I can do is help him make better use of what little he has left." He pulled his gauntlet back on before helping Jauffre don his breastplate. "Far better to die on a battlefield with blood on your sword than to end your days lying senseless in a puddle of your own piss." When he himself died – that day would come, inevitably – he wanted to face it on his feet with a weapon in his hands. Malacath respected those who died well.

A look of realisation spread over Renault's face as she slowly removed her helmet. "You're going to Bruma?" she asked.

"Yes," responded Jauffre, nodding in thanks as Gorgoth strapped on his pauldrons. "Lucius, saddle my horse. Healing potions will not be necessary. And if Steffan is available, I would prefer to have a word with him before leaving." The battlemage saluted and left. A small smirk played across the Breton's lips. "It's ironic. All this time, we've been opposing Dagon with all our strength, but right now... I want him to try. I want to go to Aetherius and be able to say that the last thing I did was spit in his face."

Renault appeared to be struggling for words, clearly conflicted, but eventually she found her tongue. "Good luck, Reynald," she muttered, moving forward to clasp his shoulder as Gorgoth fastened his greaves. "I've... already come to terms with your dying - I think - so..." she sighed. "Die well."

"I will. That is the plan." The Grandmaster sat back on his bed to pull on his boots. "I know I'm leaving the Blades in good hands. Martin couldn't ask for better bodyguards."

The Knight Captain nodded. "I've expanded the Imperial Bodyguard," she assured him. "He'll be safe."

Jauffre rose, sliding his sheathed dai-katana through the strap running across his cuirass, leaving the hilt poking up over his shoulder within easy reach. He took his helmet and turned to Gorgoth, running his tongue over his lips. "I have my farewells to say, but... thank you, Gorgoth. Thank you for giving me this chance. I... appreciate it."

"Every man should have a chance to die with honour," responded the warrior-shaman, slamming fist to heart in a perfect salute. Jauffre returned the gesture, standing straight and meeting his gaze for a few seconds before turning and leaving the room. Renault shot him a brief glance then followed her Grandmaster. The Orc was left alone with the fading smell associated with the sickly and the dying. The old Breton would be gone within the hour. They would be hoping, for his sake, that Dagon was trying to invade Bruma again. He'd been right; it was ironic.

Remembering that Modryn had left a note for him, Gorgoth left the sickroom and headed for his own chambers, ignoring the cluster of Blades in the courtyard enthralled by their Grandmaster's new-found strength. He entered the Royal Wing and eased his door open with his foot, kicking it closed behind him. Mazoga looked up from where she was sprawled in an armchair, having removed her armour. She nodded towards the table, where a small folded parchment awaited him. He walked over and removed his gauntlets, placing them on the table before picking up Modryn's note and breaking the seal.

_Gorgoth,_

_I barely got back before one of my contacts almost broke down the door, being so eager to inform me of an opportunity. Blackheart's death is doing a power of good for our reputation already, but now we've got a chance to strike directly at the Blackwood Company. Meet me in my house in Chorrol. Bring Protector Vonius if you want. He seems reliable, if a bit dim. Now move your arse, boot. I don't like waiting._

_Oreyn_

The warrior-shaman refolded the letter and tucked it inside one of his gauntlets. "It seems I won't be spending the night here," he told his lover. "Oreyn wants me as soon as possible."

She frowned at him, standing and folding her arms. "You promised me a good night tonight."

The barest upturn of the corners of his mouth indicated that Gorgoth was smiling. "Then we'll bring the night forward," he suggested. He gestured to the window, through which the sinking sun was visible. "It's almost dusk anyhow."

Mazoga smirked as she walked up to him, placing a hand on his chest. "For once, Gorgoth, I might be liking your way of thinking." She laughed as she started to undo the straps of his cuirass.

As she worked, the warrior-shaman stared down at her, sweeping her from head to toe with an analytical glance. She would never be called good-looking; her features were harsh and angular and her breasts small for her size, leading many non-Orcs to assume she was a man at first sight. That didn't matter to him, however; exterior beauty was only skin-deep. It was what was inside that mattered. "Mazoga?" he grunted.

She paused in removing his pauldrons. "What?"

"I think I love you."

His lover cocked her head to the side and raised an eyebrow. "I'm assuming that this revelation won't be changing the way you act at all?"

"Of course not. You know me." He might have confirmed its existence, but he would still keep that love rigidly suppressed. No one could ever use Mazoga against him; he was steel, and steel did not have emotions that could weaken the armour.

His lover shrugged and dropped his pauldron to the floor, kneeling to work on his greaves. "Fine by me," she grunted. "I know I've got you, bloody emotional armour and all. That's all I need." She finished removing off his greaves and straightened to press her body against his, her hands clawing at his shirt. He tore her own shirt from her back and forced her backwards into the bedroom. She would indeed have a good night. They both would.

* * *

As the last rays of the sun gave way to the dark of night, a cold wind was whipping at the battlements of Cloud Ruler Temple. Roliand, being a Skyrim-born Nord, was well-accustomed to the conditions and was weathering the winter with his customary rugged demeanour, kept warm by the bearskin cloak he was wearing over his armour. Standing beside him, Martin envied the man for his natural resistance to cold. The ex-priest was also wearing a heavy fur cloak over his warm woollen robes, but even so, he was glad for the small brazier in the watch tower.

"Where is it, do you think?" he asked the Knight Brother, who had replaced Baurus as sentry two hours previously. He was referring to the dull red glow on the horizon which indicated an Oblivion Gate.

"South, I think. Beyond Bruma by several miles, I'd say. Far out." The Nord smiled. "But close enough for Grandfather to be dealing with it."

Martin nodded, folding his arms and lapsing into silence once again. He'd seen the Grandmaster off an hour previously, knowing that it would be the last time he'd ever see the man alive. Afterwards, he'd attempted to go back to his translating, but found himself unable to focus. Instead, he'd donned his cloak and gone to patrol the battlements, looking out across the snowy landscape of the north. The Blades were carrying out their duties as normal – he'd expected nothing less – but the fortress seemed quieter, slightly less cheerful. They'd lost many Blades in the expedition to kill Azani Blackheart, and now they had lost their Grandmaster. It was a lot to absorb.

The heir had known Jauffre for mere months, but he still owed a lot to him. It had been the Breton who'd ordered Gorgoth to get him out of Kvatch. It had been he who'd led him to safety in Cloud Ruler Temple, and helped him with the sudden demands of his new role. When Jauffre had been unable to leave his bed several days ago, the ex-priest had attended him for hours until the Grandmaster sent him back to his work, saying that saving the realm was far more important than tending to a dying old man in his final hours.

Steffan had come to him to speak privately after that, to ask him if he would have any problems about the Knight Captain being appointed the next Grandmaster; officially, it was the Emperor's choice, though Martin recognised how foolish it would be should he reject Jauffre's recommendation. He'd given Steffan his blessing. The Imperial had vast experience of both administration and combat, but more importantly, he was a good man and a good soldier; exactly what the Blades would need in these times.

Martin was no stranger to loss. Sometimes, it seemed to be his constant companion, and he had become somewhat acquainted with it. He would briefly grieve for Jauffre, but his heart had long since been hardened. Sanguine and Kvatch had made sure of that. In these times, when death walked Tamriel every day, if grief was allowed so much as a foothold he would be torn apart. He could only pray that the Divines would look kindly upon their souls. Many brave soldiers were dying every week in Bruma; he could only hope that the Divines were listening.

Some would question his continuing belief, and he himself had started to despair in the ruins of Kvatch, trapped in the Chapel. Then the champion of the Nine had appeared and swept the Daedra from the city. It had taken some thought in the privacy of his chambers, but the ex-priest had finally reached the conclusion that the answer to his prayers had come in the form of an Orcish warrior-shaman. Gorgoth gro-Kharz might follow a different god, he might have done his share of murder, rape, and pillage, but he was the champion of the Nine, sent to cast Dagon back into the Oblivion. An odd choice, for sure, but the heir knew that sometimes the Divines acted in ways incomprehensible to mortals. He could only trust their judgement.

Heavy footsteps crunching through the snow disrupted his thinking, and the ex-priest turned to find the subject of his thoughts joining them in the watch tower. The Orc didn't seem to feel the cold; his only concession to the weather seemed to be a thick fur vest visible through some of the gaps in his battered armour. Martin supposed that this temperature might well be described as mild in the Wrothgarians. "Good evening," greeted the heir, inclining his head. Roliand smiled and have a half-salute before returning to watching for danger.

"I will not be staying long," Gorgoth told him. "I've received word from Oreyn. Important Guild business that cannot wait. I leave within the hour." He paused. "How is the translation coming?"

Martin sighed, his shoulders starting to slump until he realised what company he was in. In front of one such as Gorgoth gro-Kharz, it was best to never display any weakness. While he was very thankful for the varied lessons the warrior-shaman had given him so far, he wasn't in the right frame of mind for a lecture at the moment. "It's difficult," he muttered. "Dagon goes from one kind of madness to the other. If we still had Selene..." his eyes were drawn to the Orc's weapons. The hilt of Sinweaver and the head of Blood King were visible over his shoulders, and his dai-katana and the Thornblade hang from his sword belt, but... "Where is her glaive?" he asked.

"There was no room on my back. I left it in your chambers. You will know what to do with it."

The heir leaned on the wall of the watch tower and gazed at the unearthly glow of the Oblivion Gate. "I suppose I will," he murmured. He'd been slightly shaken by her death at the time, but now she was just one casualty of many from a long list of those who had been close to him. In war, you mourned for the dead and moved on, or the distraction was fatal. Gorgoth had taught him that. "Will you be back soon?" he inquired, changing the subject.

"I don't know. Oreyn wasn't specific." The Orc paused, joining the ex-priest in watching the horizon. "Mazoga will not be coming with me, but I suspect she'll leave soon anyway to find Lurog in Bruma." Martin nodded absently. The one time he'd approached the warrior-shaman's lover to attempt to get to know her, she'd told him rather aggressively to piss off. According to Lurog, that was a typical response.

"Make sure you do come back," he reminded. "We can't afford to lose you."

"I'll be back." Gorgoth turned to go before pausing. "Get some sleep, Martin. Your exhaustion benefits no one."

"I'll try," promised the Imperial. He _did_ feel tired; translation of that evil book was enough to exhaust anyone, and he'd only had about four hours sleep in the last two days. The warrior-shaman grunted in approval and turned to leave, his boots leaving deep footprints in the snow. Sighing, the ex-priest returned to watching the distant red sky, shifting closer to the brazier. He didn't envy Roliand or any of the Blades for their lonely vigils at night, but he did appreciate them for it. It was impossible to feel completely secure with the threat of Oblivion Gates hanging over them, but the Blades did provide him with safety.

A clatter of hooves and some Blades moving to operate the gates told him that Gorgoth was leaving. Martin sighed and turned to eave the watch tower, intending to attempt to get some sleep. "Wake me when we get news of Jauffre," he told Roliand. The Nord nodded, never stopping in his task of scanning for danger.

He retreated to his chambers, mechanically stripping and crawling into bed. There were two Blades at the door to his chambers at all times now, but even so, he kept a dagger under his pillow. While Dagon was free to operate, no one was truly safe. It took him a long time to get to sleep.

When he was gently woken several hours later, he was told that it had been Captain Burd himself who had brought the Grandmaster's bloodstained dai-katana back to Cloud Ruler Temple.

* * *

Bruma was a busy place. So busy, in fact, that the inns were full to bursting and the companies of guardsmen sent by the other cities were setting up camps outside the walls, being told – with profuse apologies – that there were simply not enough barracks to hold them. The expanded Bruma City Guard alone filled most of the available space. This meant that travellers approaching Bruma would find camps of armed men each side of the road, with the flags of different cities flying proudly from numerous tents. Fortunately, the famous discipline of the Imperial Legion held strong; everything was well-organised, the latrines were far from both the walls and the road, and brawls were rare.

Lurog had noted the camps as he'd entered Bruma the day before, but there was no need for him and the rest of Gorgoth's sworn Orcs to join them; only nine in number, they'd managed to negotiate their way into sleeping in the cellar of one of the inns near the South Gate. It was damp and cramped, but they were soldiers, all of them; they were used to conditions far worse than this. He'd woken them all at first light – best to keep them in the habit – and gave them strict reminders not to cause any trouble unless the provocation was dire. He didn't have Gorgoth's status with the authorities, and the last thing he wanted was to find that some of his comrades were wasting their time in jail.

With all of them confirming that they'd obey the laws of Bruma – more or less – he led them out of the cellar and up to the inn's common room, which was sparsely populated and quiet at this hour, a few tables being occupied by men and women of various races who were obviously mercenaries. Giving his comrades permission to disperse, Lurog walked up to a table and slid down into an empty chair, the inevitable creaking drawing the eyes of both occupants. "Watch yourself, Signus, she's a handful," he warned the grizzled mercenary. "Even this early."

The Imperial glared up at him, but his companion only giggled. "Good to see you again, Lurog," purred Dralasa Helas, leaning forward to touch his cheek with delicate fingers and deliberately drawing his eyes to the plunging neckline of her clinging green silk dress. The Dunmer always seemed to dress like she was in a brothel, whatever the weather. One of the advantages of heating spells.

"And you, Dral," replied the Orc, returning her warm smile with a grin and waving for the nearest serving girl, flicking her a drake and ordering ale. "What have you been doing while me and Gorgoth have been off killing people?"

"What do you think?" she asked, winking and flashing him a sly grin that would have had his heart beating slightly faster if he had been interested at the moment. He doubted that she'd slept alone every night she'd been in Bruma. When not in combat – where she could be devastatingly effective – she really did seem to do little else except what she called 'my sport', as long as she had a sufficient population to 'play' with. As far as he could tell, that 'sport' involved flirting with as many men as possible and getting into bed with those she was most impressed with. She'd even spread her legs for her close friends when there had been no one else around for a while. Gorgoth had been the only one to refuse her consistently; Lurog himself had welcomed her to his bed a few times, after her reassurances that her spells ensured that his fathering a half-breed with her would be impossible.

Uriel Signus spat onto the stone floor. "At least she's clean," he growled. "If not, half the garrison would have come down with the pox by now." The Imperial grabbed his tankard and took several large gulps.

"Only half?" Lurog chuckled. "I think you might be underestimating our friend's appetite, mercenary." He nodded in thanks as his own tankard arrived and sighed in pleasure as the cool ale washed the taste of sleep from his mouth.

The sellsword grimaced and replaced his tankard. "Well, she's definitely a handful, I'll give her that." Dralasa rested her chin on interlocked fingers and grinned impishly at him as he took another swig.

"You're energetic for an old man, you know." She laughed as he spluttered on his ale. "Makes me wonder how good you are with that other sword of yours." She winked and reached over to affectionately pat his shoulder.

"Well, we'll soon find out," claimed Lurog, eyeing the mercenary. He was fully armoured save for his gauntlets and helmet, which rested on the table beside his ale. That was a good sign; experienced mercenaries often got into a habit of being ready for battle at any time. "He'll be coming with us into the next Gate that opens. Best to get some more experience of what you'll be facing." He'd make sure all eight of Gorgoth's Orcs also joined him; he doubted if any had encountered a Gate before, let alone fought through one.

Signus, having recovered, drained the last of his ale and slammed his tankard down, glaring at the warrior. "Who says I'm coming with you?" he growled.

"Your sense of self-preservation. Your chances of survival, after all, will be far greater if you have experience at fighting Daedra."

"I _have_ experience," snarled the mercenary, his hand unconsciously running across his chest, presumably tracing the scar left there by a Dremora years ago.

"Not of the Deadlands, you don't," Dralasa told him, resting her foot on her opposite knee and leaning back in her chair with her arms behind her head. Inevitably, the Imperial's eyes were drawn to her body. "Besides, come with us and you might just have the pleasure of seeing me blow stuff up." She laughed at the expression on Signus's face.

"Glad you're coming, Dral," grunted Lurog. "Every squad that goes into a gate would benefit from a powerful mage. And some levity to distract from the situation, which you're always sure to provide." He leaned in closer. "Just... no flirting with Gorgoth's Orcs while they're tearing out guts, OK? It might distract them."

She laughed again and leaned across the table to wrap her arms around his thick neck and kiss his cheek before letting go and rising. "Course not," she chuckled. "There's a time and place for everything, I guess. Speaking of which, I need a new dress. Oblivion has a habit of ruining them. See you later." Sweeping her flame-red hair out of her eyes, she turned and sauntered from the inn, winking in reply to every leer.

"Is she mad?" asked Signus, gazing after her, bewilderment and lust showing in his eyes in equal measures.

"Probably. I'd advise you not to get in the way of her fireballs."

* * *

Modryn Oreyn had experienced a lot of waiting in his life, but it never failed to irritate him. He was pacing back and forth in the living room of his small house, dressed in full armour apart from his helmet. The sound of his boots on the floorboards was regular as he strode from wall to wall, deep in thought. He'd given the message to a courier five days ago. Gorgoth should be here by now, or very soon. When the window of opportunity was this small, however, everything needed to have happened the day before, or before that, or before _that_. Cursing in frustration and damning the Orc's slow green hide, the Dunmer moved into his bedroom.

The two chests he'd taken from Atatar were still there, their reinforced locks made even more secure by the chains he'd wrapped around the lids. No one would get that twenty thousand without fighting for it, that was certain. The Alteration that Gorgoth had laid on them meant that it had been easy enough to carry them on his horse, but that spell had worn off a day ago, and he wasn't about to call anyone down from the Guild to collect them. Questions would be asked.

Even so, he'd had a constant stream of well-wishers from the Guild at his door, praising him for the handling of the Blackheart affair. Vilena Donton hadn't been one of them, but according to some of the Guildsmen, she rarely left her office these days. No doubt she was having problems seeing past the end of her own nose. A few calls to the right contacts had seen the Guild's reputation largely restored, but it was going to fall apart soon enough unless there was a change in leadership. Most of the Guildhalls hadn't had any directives from Chorrol for weeks, and while most were capable of self-government, a Guild without both an effective Guildmaster and an effective Champion was heading for dangerous waters.

A sharp knock on the door brought him out of his musings. "Who is it?" he called, stomping over and standing with his hand on the chain. Not many people called at this time; the sun had gone down over an hour previously, and the winter nights were cold.

"Gorgoth gro-Kharz."

_Finally_. Modryn unbolted the door and wrenched it open, stepping back so that the massive Orc could duck under the doorframe and enter. "What took you so long?" he barked.

"A desire not to kill our horses on the way here," responded Gorgoth, giving him a cold glance and standing aside so his companions could enter. The ex-Champion had expected Ilend Vonius, but he narrowed his eyes when Aerin sauntered in after her lover, casually kicking the door shut behind her and looking around after pushing back the hood of her cloak.

"I told you to-"

The warrior-shaman cut him off. "You told me to bring Protector Vonius if I wanted. You said nothing about what to do if his lover insisting on being dragged along as well." Aerin at least had the grace to blush as she moved to warm himself by his fire. "She'll be useful. She often is. What did you want us for?"

Modryn grunted and folded his arms. "The Company has moved north," he declared.

Ilend's head jerked away from the fire, where he'd joined Aerin in warming himself. "Where are they?" he growled. "Point us in the right direction and we'll bloody them." That suggestion was predictable; the Imperial was loyal, dependable, and a skilled warrior, but too simplistic to be much more than that.

"I wouldn't have thought an ex-guardsman would be so eager to get bored in the Emperor's dungeons," replied the Dunmer, sarcasm thick in his voice. "We need a plan for this; one that doesn't involve bludgeoning everyone with a sword-and-axe sigil on their armour. No, we have to think it through and get as much benefit as we can from it."

"What's the full situation?" asked Gorgoth, eyeing one of the chairs before mercifully deciding to remain standing.

"The Company have sent one of their best squads north to establish a foothold. They're not setting up in cities this time; fortunately for us, they're probably planning to start operations out of Glademist Cave." That had been a relief; if they had started building a Company Hall, it would have been a lot harder to do what needed to be done. "It's just off the Orange Road. Shouldn't take us much more than a day to get there, if you can get your nags up to speed." The ex-Champion moved over to his table and laid a hand on two saddlebags, each having been fully prepared hours ago. "If you were hoping for a nice night's rest, you can forget that. Time is critical."

"It often is," concurred Gorgoth, his deep voice almost concealing a slight theatrical groan from Aerin. "What do you have in mind?"

"Firstly, we need to kill all but one of them. None can escape. They're still legal, no matter how much we shout at the Council, so if word gets out that we're massacring them, we'll fast get acquainted with the hospitality of prison guards." Modryn snorted. True, the Council had bigger things to worry about, but they could be very blind sometimes. Word from Leyawiin indicated that the Company's dealings were swiftly growing even more questionable.

"You said 'all but one of them'," noted Ilend.

"This is important for them, so they've put Ajum-Kajin, one of their high-rankers, in command. An Argonian, good with a blade, better with magic, and even better with paperwork. Exactly what you'd need for this kind of thing." A small, threatening smile plucked at his lips. "He knows too much for us to waste it by killing him, much as he deserves it. No, we're going to capture him and get everything he knows." The Dunmer looked up at Gorgoth. "You're good with interrogation, I seem to remember."

"Some Bretons have been broken by my reputation alone." Modryn was inclined to believe him. The cold, threatening manner of the Orc certainly suggested that he was well-acquainted with torture.

"So, if time is so important..." Ilend paused to look between the ex-Champion and the ex-Warder. "What are we waiting for?"

"For you to shut your trap and follow me," growled Modryn, putting on his helmet before grabbing his saddlebags. "Come on. We can discuss the finer points on the way there. Let's move." Without waiting for any answer, he quickly walked to the door and wrenched it open, striding out into the night. The Blackwood Company was going to regret coming north.

* * *

Two hours sleep at a camp by the side of the road was all the ex-Champion had allowed them, and as a result they reached Glademist Cave well before dusk the next day. As they tied their horses near the entrance, Gorgoth entered the cave through the dark fissure in the rock. He came out a few minutes later, throwing a severed head – still in its helmet – to the ground. "Their sentry won't be giving them any warning," he told them, wiping blood from the Thornblade with an old, stained cloth.

"How did you kill this one?" enquired Ilend, making sure his sword belt was firm around his waist. He'd left his newly-acquired Orcish battle bow with Javelin; there would be no need for it in the confines of the cave. Given how much the two ex-Guildsmen had talked about the inner workings and the future of the Guild on the way here, he found it deeply ironic that he was the only Guildsman there. Of course, when he had pointed that out, Oreyn had snorted, but the Imperial had glimpsed a brief flash of pain in the Dark Elf's crimson eyes. His dismissal after decades of service had hurt the proud old warrior, that was certain.

"Invisibility and the Silencing of whatever noise I was making." The Orc tucked his rag back inside his gauntlet and sheathed the Thornblade with a rasp of steel on leather. "He knew of nothing until my steel sliced through his neck."

"We'd better get in there before they discover his blood fertilising the moss, then," growled Oreyn, taking his shield from his horse and patting him in farewell before starting towards the entrance. "Aerin, stand guard and make sure no one l-"

"Not a chance, ash-filth," snarled Aerin, furiously cutting him off as she clenched her fists around Trueshot. "I've been stuck on guard duty too often for my liking, especially when it involves getting stabbed, beaten and crushed half ta death. If you want ta make sure no one gets out, _you_ take guard duty." She tossed her head angrily, her ponytail swinging from side to side. Ilend quietly sighed and grimaced. He'd expected her to flare up if confronted with this, not that he could blame her.

Momentarily taken aback, the Dunmer's eyes swiftly narrowed and he started walking slowly up to her. Ilend's hand unconsciously closed over his sword hilt. "Listen here, you worthless piece of horseshit," he grated, his voice dangerously low. "I've been killing men before your father's father was whelped. I know what I'm saying. So when I tell you to do something, you'll do it, or I'll make you wish you were him." A grey finger pointed in the direction of the Company man's severed head.

The Wood Elf opened her mouth, presumably to rebuff him again, but then she saw something in those cold crimson eyes that made her swallow her words. She glared up at him for a few seconds before muttering a curse and dropping her gaze. "Fine," she sighed, shoulders slumping. "Don't blame me if ya find me with my throat cut." Her voice sounded sullen but resigned.

"If you have even a shred of sense, we won't," snorted Modryn, turning away and once again walking towards the entrance to Glademist Cave. "Come on. We've wasted enough time already." Gorgoth, who had watched the exchange with folded arms and an unreadable expression, nodded and followed him.

"Fat lot of help you were," hissed Aerin with surprising savagery when Ilend tried to put a hand on her shoulder as he fell in beside her. Startled, he removed his hand and tried to speak, but she cut him off with a furious glare and sped up, stalking towards the opening. _What in Oblivion could I have possibly done?_ He shook his head and strapped his shield to his left arm. He might find it hard to understand his lover sometimes, but at least he knew her well enough to know that she'd calm down soon enough. At least, he hoped so.

"Wait." Gorgoth's barked command and a clenched fist brought Oreyn up short just as he was passing into the shadowed entrance of the cave.

"What now?" he demanded.

In response, the warrior-shaman turned and looked towards a large clump of bushes, taking two steps towards them and folding his arms. "Step forward," he commanded. Ilend frowned; the Orc was talking to thin air, it seemed. He couldn't see anything. Looking sideways, he saw Aerin looking just as confused.

"Knew I wouldn't be able to fool you, greenskin," responded a gravelly, distorted voice from nowhere. Then a shimmering in the air betrayed the presence of someone cloaked in Illusion magic as they stepped forward into the clearing, the clinking of armour suggesting that he was a threat.

"Take off the ring," ordered Gorgoth, uncrossing his arms and staring into what was probably the stranger's face. Beside the Orc, Oreyn had drawn his mace; clearly, he wasn't in a trusting mood.

"Seems you're smarter than I ever gave you credit for," growled the cloaked stranger. A man abruptly became visible a few paces in front of them as he yanked a ring off his finger. At least, the Protector thought it was a man; he was wearing a pot helm that covered the entirety of his head,which would be the reason for the distortion of his voice. A chainmail hauberk reached his knees, and dull steel mail protected his arms and legs. Several potions hanging from his sword belt balanced the weight of a long broadsword on the opposite hip. "Not bad, this, but you always were bloody cautious," continued the soldier, idly tossing the ring from hand to hand. The sunlight glimmered off a wide golden band and a massive ruby.

"And I would not have expected you to be wielding the Ring of Khajiiti," rumbled Gorgoth, waving for Modryn to lower his weapon. The ex-Champion did so slowly, looking as confused as Ilend felt.

"I'll put it to better use than those bloody house cats it's named after," snorted the helmed man. He looked around at them, the whites of his eyes barely visible through the eye-slits of his simple, smooth helmet. "Are you lackwits ever going to find your tongues?"

"What in Azura's name is going on, Gorgoth?" inquired Modryn, glaring from the Orc to the stranger and back again. "Who is this sneaky bugger? Company?" Ilend shared the Dunmer's suspicion; a stranger appearing at a Blackwood Company base of operations at the same time they did was unlikely to be a coincidence.

The unknown man barked a harsh laugh, but it was the warrior-shaman who answered. "An acquaintance, you could say. Definitely not Company. He-"

"Cut the crap, big guy," interrupted Aerin, finally finding her voice. "Who _is_ he?" Not waiting for an answer, she whirled on the stranger. "Who are you? Take that tin hat off."

"Why? Is the masked stranger making you nervous, treehugger?" The man snorted. "Idiots. If a greenskin can figure it out, so can you." Ilend's hand tightened around his sword hilt. Company or not, he wasn't the type to take any insult lightly.

"Enough," grunted Gorgoth. "We're wasting time here. Join us or go back to the Temple, Magnus. Either way, stop playing your games."

"Fine, fine," growled the soldier, reaching up and removing the helmet to reveal the sun-darkened bald head and well-trimmed white goatee of Gnaeus Magnus. "Close your mouth before you start catching flies, girl," he told Aerin as he rested his helmet in the crook of his elbow. "What, you thought you'd got rid of the senile, grouchy old git? Not a bloody chance."

Despite himself, Ilend felt a smirk slide onto his face. "I missed you, old man," he admitted, releasing his sword hilt. "You've been keeping busy, it seems. Where'd you get the armour?"

"Have your bloody family reunion later," spat Modryn, raising his mace and pointing into the darkness of Glademist Cave. "You." He glared at Gnaeus. "If you're coming, kill anything that moves that isn't us. And spare an Argonian called Ajum-Kajin. Sound simple enough for you?"

"Yes. Stop your yapping and let an old man through," responded the Imperial, brushing past all of them and drawing his ebony broadsword. Even Aerin, despite her current foul mood, had to laugh at the expression on the Dunmer's face. Recovering, he glanced at Gorgoth as though to ask_ is he always like that?_ before shaking his head and following the ex-hermit in. Ilend drew his sword, strapped his shield to his arm, and took one last look around the clearing before entering the cave.

It was dank and dark, the only light coming from the entrance and a globe of magical light hovering above Gorgoth's head. A headless corpse decorated the start of a passageway that was lined with moss-covered rocks stalagmites. Gnaeus was up ahead, studying the body with mild curiosity. A resigned sigh turned his head; Aerin had sat down on a rock near the exit and laid Trueshot across her knees. "We'll be back soon enough," the Protector told her. "Kill anyone who isn't us. And don't die, okay?"

She managed a weak smile. "If I get impaled and crushed half ta death, kill Modryn for me, could ya?" She shook her head and and clasped his hand for a second before releasing him. "Go on. I'll be fine." She was right; from her position, anyone wanting to approach her from within the cave would have at least thirty paces to advance through a narrow passageway whilst under fire from an expert marksman with a powerful bow. He gave her a last smile and hurried off after the others.

Gorgoth was leading the way with Blood King clenched in his right fist. Ilend took the rear, advancing with shield half-raised. The passage was winding with sharp turns and narrow enough that they were forced into single file, but it was no surprise when it suddenly opened up into a fair-sized cavern; the raised voices of Company members talking had forewarned them. There were five of them, all in steel plate or chainmail with the sword-and-axe prominent on their dark green surcoats. _They're certainly proud of who they are,_ thought Ilend grimly as he stepped up beside his comrades, forming a line as the Company men hastily grabbed their weapons and rushed towards the intruders without even asking whether they were friend or foe.

The warrior-shaman shattered one enemy with ball lightning before they'd even joined battle, leaving them one each. Blocking a Khajiit's wild slash with his shield, the Protector pushed him off in the direction of Gnaeus and turned his attention to a spear-wielding Argonian with a bare head and bare feet. Batting aside a hopeful stab, the Imperial darted forward with a swift downcut. The lizard danced out of his reach and poked again, probing his defences. Stepping backwards to draw him in, the Guildsman surged forward and brought his longsword down on the wooden shaft, cutting the six-foot weapon in two. The Company man blinked and attempted to draw the shortsword at his hip, but moved too slowly and found himself run through by a Daedric longsword.

Ilend pushed the Argonian's corpse off his blade and turned, but the rest of the battle was already over. Gorgoth had somehow managed to impale his opponent on a stalactite far above them, the Redguard's broken limbs hanging limply down as though trying to grasp the head of his killer. The Imperial shook his head and busied himself with cleaning his blade. Blood King had been known to defy conventional thought at times. The architect of the unusual kill was standing at the point where the cavern narrowed and twisted out of sight. "There are two ways forward," he reported, pointing over to the mouth of another passage.

"Take that way, Protector," ordered Oreyn, pointing to the side passage. "If it's a dead end, catch up with us. Take the old man." The Dunmer was turning away and leading Gorgoth down the far passage before the Guildsman could respond.

"And he calls _me_ old man..." grumbled Gnaeus, whose voice was once again distorted by his full-face helmet. He started off towards the opening in the rock without waiting for Ilend. "Damned ash-skin is probably twice my age..."

The younger Imperial snorted but held his tongue. Verbal sparring could wait until they had less people to kill. He pushed past the ex-hermit to lead with shield up, cursing the clattering their chainmail made on the various rocky protrusions common in Glademist cave. Fortunately, such sounds worked both ways, so the Protector was fully prepared for when two fully-armoured Company men came around the corner with weapons drawn.

Wasting no time, Ilend smashed his shield sideways into the leading Khajiit's weapon arm, pinning it to the wall while he stabbed him through the stomach. The dying foe fell backwards as the ex-guardsman withdrew his blade, causing the approaching Nord to stumble and waste precious seconds pushing his former comrade out of the way. That was the only opening Ilend needed, slashing down and opening the Nord's torso from shoulder to stomach, the surcoat and chainmail parting easily for the Daedric steel. As his opponent's breath turned to gurgles, the Imperial moved forward and slashed again, spilling his entrails over the cavern floor.

"Are you quite finished with showing off?" barked Gnaeus, having been forced to watch from behind his younger companion in the narrow confines of the tunnel.

"Maybe," smirked Ilend, cleaning his blade as he carefully stepped over the bodies. "Wait your turn, old man. I'll bet you've had your fair share of killing while we've been gone."

The ex-hermit snorted. "A load of bandits who couldn't tell one end of a blade from the other."

"Which is clearly why you're still alive." The Protector chuckled and leaned carefully around a corner to check that the way was clear before continuing. "Not like back in your day, eh?"

Gnaeus harrumphed. "Back when I was still getting paid for things like this, a bandit wasn't considered a true bandit unless he'd lopped off at least ten ears, toes, fingers... whatever they kept as trophies." He shook his head. "Of course, this _was_ Hammerfell. The Alik'r Redguards have no concept of civilisation."

"Much like you, then." Ilend cut off the old man's response with a clenched fist. "Quiet. There's more around the next bend." He peered around an outcropping and glimpsed four men in a wide cavern up ahead before an arrow slamming into the rock next to his ear sent him back behind cover. "Archer," he warned.

"My eyes work perfectly fine," snapped the ex-hermit.

Raising his shield, Ilend surged out into the chamber, Gnaeus right behind him. An arrow instantly made its presence known by embedding itself in his shield, but it merely succeeded in momentarily throwing him off balance. He winced as something flashed past his ear, but only when he heard the choked cry in front of him did he realise that Gnaeus had actually _thrown_ his broadsword into the archer. Lowering his shield, the Imperial had time to glimpse the archer clawing at the ebony blade protruding from his upper chest before his view was blocked by a Bosmer darting forward and slashing with two shortswords.

Blocking both with his shield, the Protector pushed forward, his quick swings and thrusts forcing the less skilled Wood Elf backwards until he tripped over the thrashing body of his comrade. Ilend kicked him in the stomach, sending him crashing to the ground, and stepped over him to swiftly thrust his blade into his chest. The elf's heart thumped twice against the longsword before its wielder twisted and withdrew it in a spray of blood.

"A little help here?" roared Gnaeus, who was having trouble containing two Imperials when armed with nothing but a dagger. The Guildsman moved swiftly, coming up behind one of the ex-hermit's assailants and kicking him in the back of the knee, catching him as he fell and slitting his throat. His longsword was hardly the most effective tool for the task, turning it into more of a half-decapitation and splattering the Protector with hot blood, but it served its purpose. Gnaeus had ducked low under an axe swing and tackled the other Company man to the ground, pinning his weapon arm with a knee as he buried the dagger in his opponent's eye.

"Try not to carelessly chuck your sword away next time," advised Ilend as he cleaned his own blade. Most of his torso and some of his face was covered in blood, but cleaning that could wait.

"Try not to mindlessly charge an archer next time," retorted Gnaeus, wrenching his broadsword from the chest of the mentioned archer. Both of their heads jerked around as a hulking, heavily-armoured Nord in steel plate armour stepped from a passage on the far side of the cavern.

A shaggy brown beard covered most of his chest, and he was almost as wide as Gorgoth, but it was the two battleaxes he was casually carrying in his hands that attracted the eye. His gaze swept across the two of them and he grunted, hefting his mighty weapons and settling into a combat stance. "How would you like to die?" he asked gruffly.

"My plans for death do not involve a half-ogre chopping off my manhood with an axe that has more sense than he does," growled Gnaeus, shifting to a two-handed grip on his sword. The massive Nord snarled and advanced, swinging both axes in an arc before him, driving the ex-hermit back. Ilend leapt in and aimed a thrust at his enemy's neck, but he moved quicker than his size would suggest, his parry almost tearing the sword from the Imperial's hand. Instead of staggering backwards, the Protector purposefully overbalanced and rolled forwards, coming up inside the Nord's reach and thrusting upwards. The power of the thrust and the power of Daedric steel meant that his blade punched through the steel plate and into his opponent's abdomen.

Roaring in pain, the Nord dropped his battleaxes and swept Ilend off his feet before he could react. He found himself crushed against the cold steel breastplate, the breath being squeezed out of him as the wounded Company man squeezed with all his enormous strength. Gasping for breath with his face pushed into the Nord's beard and his ribs slowly buckling, the Imperial frantically attempted to kick his opponent's knees in. Then blood spurted into his face, blinding him as the end of an ebony broadsword protruded through the front of the Nord's forehead. As Gnaeus wrenched his blade from the back of their enemy's neck, Ilend collapsed to the floor, sucking in breath in great gulps.

"Don't you get enough hugs from that bedwarmer of yours?" asked the ex-hermit sardonically as he pulled the longsword from the Nord's stomach and offered it hilt-first to his breathless companion. Ilend took it with a glare and dragged himself to his feet. The old man's expression was impossible to read beneath that helmet, but he was almost definitely smirking.

"Come on," he growled as soon as he had his breath back, motioning them forward as he wiped the blood from his eyes. More of the crimson liquid dripped from his sword as they advanced further through Glademist Cave, but he ignored it. If someone wanted to follow them, all they would need to do was follow the trail of corpses. No doubt their comrades were leaving similar trails of destruction.

They encountered no one else until the next cavern, where the corpses of three Company men greeted them. It was easy to tell who had killed them; both Gorgoth and Oreyn used heavy maces, and all the bodies had various shattered bones and expressions of pain. After a few minutes, they caught up with the ex-Guildsmen just as they were finishing off another batch of opponents.

"Glad you could finally join us," snorted Oreyn as he ripped his mace from the face of an unfortunate Khajiit. "If that blood is yours, get your wounds healed," he told Ilend gruffly as he wiped the worst of the brain matter from his mace. "Otherwise, hurry up. Not far now, according to Gorgoth's life detection."

"I see three life signatures up ahead," reported the warrior-shaman as they headed towards a narrowing in the tunnel. His globe of light was no longer needed due to the torch brackets in the walls. "Beyond them, nothing. The increasing signs of habitation lead me to believe that this is their residence." That much was true; as they'd descended deeper into the cavern, Ilend had noted bedrolls, weapon racks, tables, fires, and other indications that the cave was being used to live in.

The Orc held up a clenched fist as they approached the last chamber. "Remember that Ajum-Kajin is a mage. I'll lead." He summoned a magical shield and strode rapidly around the corner into the light produced by a dozen torches. Ilend followed with his own shield held high.

Instantly, there was a crackle of magic and a roar as a bolt of lightning arced into Gorgoth's shield, doing nothing but light up the three inhabitants of what was certainly the command room of the Company's operations. Two armoured Khajiits were drawing their weapons and advancing, whereas a robed Argonian was retreating with hands outstretched. "Mage!" he was shouting. "Kill the Orc first! He-" the lizard was cut off by Gorgoth's own lightning bolt, which slammed him into the far wall.

Pushing Ajum-Kajin from his mind, Ilend sprang to meet one of the Khajiit's blades with his own, turning the attack aside and forcing him backwards with his shield. The cat hissed and bared his fangs, but jerked and dropped his weapon as Gnaeus smoothly sliced his spine in two. Oreyn had shattered the other warrior's ribcage with a single slash. Gorgoth had advanced and was dragging the twitching, writhing Ajum-Kajin to his feet, healing and Silencing him. Looking around for other enemies and finding none, Ilend sheathed his sword and finally allowed himself to relax slightly.

This small cavern was far more furnished than any part of the cavern so far; a large bed stood in one corner, with a wardrobe and armour stand next to it. A large table hosted maps of Cyrodiil and numerous letters along with quills and inkpots. Torches in brackets hammered into the stone provided ample light. The inhabitant – still shaking from the after-effects of being hit by lightning – squirmed in Gorgoth's grasp as Oreyn walked up to him. What was visible of Ajum-Kajin's scales was mostly red, with a few streaks of green over his cheeks. His orange eyes were full of barely-restrained fear as the Dunmer examined him critically. "You can't-" his rasping voice was cut off by the ex-Champion's backhand.

"Shut it, lizard-rat. You'll speak when you get leave to speak." The Dark Elf looked up at Gorgoth. "Do you want privacy for this?"

The warrior-shaman nodded. "I will send for you when he is broken," he assured. "I would advise you to take up defensive positions. We cannot know for sure that this was all of them."

Oreyn rubbed his chin. "Fine. Shame you're better-qualified than me. I'd love to make this eel scream." He aimed a kick at the Argonian before leaving, waving for Gnaeus and Ilend to follow him. The ex-hermit harrumphed but followed without complaint.

The Guildsman lingered. "Gorgoth..."

"I am perfectly capable of doing whatever has to be done on my own. Leave us."

Ilend briefly met the Orc's amber eyes. He quickly dropped his gaze and hurried from the chamber. Despite everything he knew about the Blackwood Company, despite their enmity, he couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of pity for Ajum-Kajin. Shaking his head, he walked off to find Aerin.

* * *

After Ilend had departed, Gorgoth stepped up to the only way into the small command room and blocked it with a shield spell. He then added a Silence spell to stop sound leaving the room and finally a light-bending spell to prevent anyone from looking in. Satisfied, he turned back to regard his captive, who was tentatively reaching for something inside his robe. "If you think I'm going to tell you anything-" he started. The warrior-shaman cut him off by grabbing the back of his neck and slamming his face down onto the hard wood table.

Ignoring the pained hissing, the Orc grabbed some rope from his belt and wrenched the Argonian's hands behind his back, quickly tying his wrists together before summoning a shortsword. Ignoring the lizard's protests, he methodically cut the robe from his body, revealing boiled leather armour. He cut the armour off as well, along with everything else the Company man was wearing until he was left naked and shivering. Most of the scales of his body were as red as those on his face, and he had a slight build, with thin shoulders and a short tail. Wordlessly pushing him into a corner, the warrior-shaman knelt and went through the lizard's clothing.

He found nothing of note – apart from a few daggers – until he came across a magical ring in one of the robe's deep pockets. Instead of asking Ajum-Kajin what it was – there would be more important questions to ask – he merely gave the sword-and-axe sigil a casual glance before placing it carefully on the table.

"Can't we talk like civilised people?" complained the Argonian, grunting as he uselessly tested the strength of the ropes binding his wrists together. His skin would crack before he found a way out of them.

"We can," confirmed Gorgoth, dragging a chair in front of the crouching lizard and taking a seat. "And you will tell me what I want to know." He balanced the shortsword that he'd used earlier on his knees. It was a delicate weapon, with a thin blade, sharp on both edges. "But first, let me tell you something about me." His amber eyes met the Argonian's orange eyes and held them. Ajum-Kajin flinched away from his gaze. Good.

"I was sixteen when the shamans came for me," he started, shifting in the chair to get more comfortable. The Argonian started to rise from his crouch, but the Orc forced him back down with a flow of magic. "My father had been resisting them for years. But even with the relatively limited collection of magical books in the palace library, I had still learnt how to make some use of my magical gift. He had no choice."

"Why are you telling-"

"Another word and I gag you. The shamans took me in as one of their own, training me as they have trained thousands of Orcs with the gift of magic over the centuries. Obviously, they noted my great power, even at that early age. I remain one of the most powerful shamans in Orsinium." Gorgoth leaned forward, staring into those apprehensive orange eyes. "But they are not just healers, mages, warriors or wise men. No, many shamans are deeply religious as well." He grunted. "At least, before King Gortwog developed that heresy of Trinimac. But in my days with them, Malacath was still prominent. His teachings would make you soil yourself, Argonian."

"I doubt-"

The Orc grabbed a large strip of the lizard's robe, balled it up, and shoved it into his mouth. "I warned you," he told Ajum-Kajin in response to the Argonian's glare. "Most Orcs will know much about Malacath, of course, but we shamans are taught how to best worship him. You would think our rituals barbaric, and maybe you have a point. But a strong god needs a strong people to do as he desires." His fingers idly drummed on one of his knees. "You may wonder why I am telling you this. When I was seventeen, I was given the honour of taking part in such a ritual. The memory of such an event does not fade easily."

* * *

"This is a great honour. I do not have to tell you that."

The young acolyte – dressed in the dark blood-red robes common among shamans – bowed his head. "I am honoured, shaman," replied Gorgoth gro-Kharz, his voice full of respect. Magor gro-Shub had seen over two hundred winters, and his hair fell in white waves to below his waist. Gorgoth's own black hair – arranged in two braids, in the warrior's fashion – barely reached mid-back, though today both were concealed under his hood.

Magor held out a curved iron dagger, stained with the blood of countless sacrifices. "You know what has to be done." He was the oldest and wisest of the shamans living in the network of caves in the mountains a few miles north of the city of Orsinium, where Gorgoth had been brought to learn. There were other collections of shamans dotting the nation of Orsinium, but this one was among the biggest. The young Orc reached out and took the dagger hilt-first, feeling the weight of it, hefting it in his palm. "Do not displease Malacath," warned Magor, giving the acolyte one last look before turning and walking out of the small cave and into the blinding light of day.

The sound of chanting echoed down from the surface. Gorgoth clenched his hand around the cold hilt, made from the same iron as the blade of the dagger. It was time. His boots – good leather – crunched over the loose stones as he confidently strode out of the cave and into the daylight.

He knew that there were nearly a hundred Orcs all around him, but as his vision adjusted to the sudden brightness, the young acolyte only had eyes for the massive state of Malacath before him, the grey stone leviathan proudly standing forty feet tall. The likeness of Malacath closely resembled that of an Orc, with bulging muscles and a colossal battleaxe raised above his head, ready to swing. It was unknown how or why the Daedric Lord had been angered, but they did not need to know that. All they had to know was how to sate his anger. And a method had been provided.

Gorgoth walked slowly to the altar at the foot of the statue, holding the dagger out in front of him as the chanting intensified. Tied spread-eagled to the altar was a young naked Breton girl, probably taken from an under-guarded caravan. She couldn't have been much more than ten. Drugged almost to oblivion, she was barely aware of the chanting, or of the dagger as the young acolyte stopped in front of her and raised it over her body.

As the chanting reached a climax, the Orc did not hesitate. He plunged the iron hand of Malacath down into her body, wrenched it downwards, opening her from throat to groin. Pulling the bloody knife free, he dropped it on the altar and reached inside her, groping until he found the slow beat of her heart. He tore the still-beating organ from her chest and held it up to Malacath, ignoring the blood dripping down his arm, under his robes. Blood of the weak to feed the strong. A savage snarl contorted Gorgoth's face as he glared up at the statue. Malacath would be appeased, or they would bleed High Rock dry until he was.

* * *

"As it happened, Malacath was appeased by that one girl, so we did not have to start a genocide," finished Gorgoth. Ajum-Kajin was whimpering by now, pressed back against the wall of the cavern, as far away from the warrior-shaman as he could get. The Orc slowly rose to his feet and grabbed the lizard by the throat, lifting him off the ground so their eyes were level, mere inches apart. "I knew nothing of that girl. I felt nothing towards her. And now you know what I did to her." A snarl plucked at his lips. "But you... I do not like you. So imagine what I'm going to do with_ you_ if you don't tell me what I want to know." He brought the shortsword into the lizard's field of vision.

The hapless Argonian shook his head frantically, eyes bulging with terror. From the smell and the sudden impact of something warm on his boot, Gorgoth knew that Ajum-Kajin had shit himself. Perfect.

* * *

**A/N: Yes, Gorgoth is an evil bastard (well, by most definitions, anyway), but you knew that already. I'll remind you all to leave a review; you've made it this far, so what's a few more minutes of your time...?**


	42. Broken Sword

**A/N: Just over two weeks this time, but as long as those update rates remain semi-constant around that area, I'll be a happy man. Now, eight reviews is better than five, but even so, more are always helpful.**

**Orion the Awesome: The thought has crossed my mind a few times, but I've decided against it for now. Much of his past will be revealed in chapters yet to come... well, a lot of it, anyway.**

**Random Reader: Yes, yes, and yes. Here's hoping I can make those developments all the more interesting... Mazoga, pregnant? Heh, she's more of a warrior than a woman... though I'm pretty sure Gorgoth wouldn't mind a son. I have plans in that area, though, don't worry. I've had plans for a long time, in fact...**

**Underpaid Critic: Hmm, odd... after reading your review at least ten times, I still can't see what's wrong with that paragraph of mine. I know I've never heard of passive voice before, though it appears I've been using it for pretty much the entire fic if I understand you correctly. Either way, I can comprehend one of those as well as the other; seems simple, to me. Anyhow, you're sure about that romance? I know it'll never be my strong point, but I do hope it's at least passable.**

**Rokibfd: Aye, I've been surprising myself with my writing speed of late sometimes, so I don't blame you. Nor do I blame you for being hooked by Skyrim. Anyhow, yes, not to worry, Dralasa will be appearing more frequently from now on, given that most of the action will be in Bruma from here on in (though I might go to unexpected places. You never know). I love writing her, but she's never had the opportunity to feature prominently until now. As for Ajum-Kajin and the Company... well, you'll see what happens, but while Gorgoth can work with his enemies, he will very, VERY rarely work with dishonourable enemies, which the Company definitely are. And until next time, indeed... methinks I can count on you reading my Skyrim fic when it eventually appears. ;)**

**As for the rest of my readers: Don't forget to review.**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-two: Broken Sword**

Once again, Modryn found himself waiting for Gorgoth. He hated waiting, particularly when it was for someone who he'd helped climb the ladder of Fighters Guild advancement quicker than anyone for decades. Not that he expected the Orc to feel indebted to him; for one thing, it didn't seem like Gorgoth, and for another, he'd lost it all anyway, indirectly because of Modryn himself. So he'd settled down to wait on a chair and stoked the nearby fire, ignoring the rats that came out to nibble at the body of the Khajiit whose head he'd bashed in.

It was at least five minutes before there was an interruption in the magical barrier that the warrior-shaman had thrown up in the entrance to the Blackwood Company's command room. The Dunmer jerked to his feet as his fellow ex-Guildsman walked into the small cavern, idly kicking a rat aside as he made his way to the fire. "He's ready to talk," he reported.

"You're sure?" inquired Modryn. "Five minutes isn't long."

"I'm sure. If he resists any further, we can deal with that. For now, we'll get something, at least." The Orc glanced across at one of the Company men he'd killed – a Bosmer – and walked over to him, cutting part of the surcoat away with a conjured shortsword.

"What are you doing?" asked the Dark Elf, narrowing his eyes.

"Cleaning that lizard's shit off my boot," grunted Gorgoth, kneeling with a large strip of the green cloth in hand to rub at the soiled steel plate.

Modryn found himself smirking. "That effective?"

"I have my methods. I would prefer not to smell like a privy, however." The Orc straightened and tossed the stinking rag aside. "Best to strike while the iron is hot." The Dunmer nodded and led the way back into the command room. As he passed through the magical wall, the only odd sensation he experienced was the sound of the fire crackling in the other cavern suddenly vanishing.

Ajum-Kajin was crouching naked and bound in the far corner, pressed as far back against the wall as he could get. There was a slim Daedric shortsword unsheathed on the table, but as far as Modryn could see, no blood had been spilt yet. Odd, but different torturers would logically have different methods. The Argonian seemed to be broken, at least; he was trembling and casting terrified looks at his Orcish tormentor. Gorgoth walked up to him and dragged him to his feet before shoving him into a chair and picking up the shortsword.

"He's evil!" the Argonian told Modryn in a shrill voice as the warrior-shaman walked around to stand in front of him. "He sacrifices children to his dark gods! He kills babies! Do you know who-" The Dunmer cut him off by grabbing his snout in an armoured fist.

"I know perfectly well who he is." Given Gorgoth's reputation, the Dark Elf wouldn't be surprised if he _did_ sacrifice children or kill babies, but right now he wasn't concerned with what his comrade might or might not have done. As long as he was true to the Guild and didn't dishonour it, he could do whatever he wanted in his private life. "Now answer our questions without lying, or I'll leave you alone with him again." He stepped back and released the lizard, who shuddered but kept quiet.

"How strong is the Company?" demanded the warrior-shaman, idly spinning the shortsword around on his palm.

"One hundred and thirty-six armed effectives, the last time I was updated," muttered the Argonian, his gaze falling to the stone beneath his webbed feet. "You can find the records on the table."

"What is your leadership structure?" asked Modryn. "Who leads you, if there's one sole leader?"

"Ri'Zakar. He is the Pakseech. Our leader." The words left the lizard's mouth with obvious reluctance, but one glance upwards at Gorgoth sent his gaze back to the stones. "He is a formidable warrior."

"We'll be the judge of that." The Dunmer gave the paper covering the table a quick glance before turning back to their captive. They could take them back to his house and read them later, but this source was fresh and might not keep that long. "What are your goals? What do you intend to do?"

"What do all men of our occupation want?" rasped Ajum-Kajin. "We want money and power. We're sellswords who'll do whatever you want. Easy to grasp, even for you provincial lackwit-" Gorgoth's fist slamming into his jaw sent him tumbling from the chair onto the cold, hard ground, grunting in pain.

"Keep a civil tongue in your head," warned the warrior-shaman as he hauled the lizard back into his chair. The Argonian gave the Orc a baleful glare that swiftly turned into a wince as he glimpsed his yellow eyes. He dropped his gaze and spat out a broken tooth.

"The Guild has three times your numbers in Cyrodiil alone," said Modryn, leaning closer. "How are you planning to combat us if it comes to open war?"

"We are strong," mumbled Ajum-Kajin, his voice thick due to the blood in his mouth where he'd probably bitten his tongue.

"So are we." The Argonian's eyes were firmly fixed on the ground, so Modryn grabbed his head and forced him to meet his gaze. "How are you strong, then? We've got the same training you have, maybe better. We've got the same motivation. We've got good men. How are you better than _us_?"

The lizard's breath was starting to come in ragged pants. "I can't-" He flinched as Gorgoth moved, but the warrior-shaman was only reaching into his belt bag. "I can't... they'd do unspeakable things to me-"

"We'll do unspeakable things to you, lizard-rat," spat Modryn, grabbing Ajum-Kajin by the throat and slamming him against the stone wall. "Maybe you should tell us what we want to know. I can promise you a quick death." He let himself grin, a horrible, threatening grin. "More or less."

"No! I-"

Both turned at the sudden sound of Gorgoth slamming a rock down on the table. It was as black as midnight, about as big as the Orc's fist. Modryn suddenly felt an inexplicable sense of unease. "Do you know what this is?" asked the warrior-shaman. The Argonian was shaking too much to answer, so he continued. "It is a black soul gem. So unless you want to spend an eternity in exquisite suffering, I'd suggest you talk." The gaze that the Orc was giving the hapless lizard would probably have frozen fire. When the Dunmer felt a warm liquid splattering over his greaves, he grunted in revulsion and stepped back, releasing Ajum-Kajin, who'd lost control of his bladder.

The Orsimer stepped forward and threw the Argonian back into his chair, grabbing the wooden back to make sure it didn't topple over. "Talk," he told the cowering lizard.

"You would, wouldn't you?" Shaking his head, Ajum-Kajin started to sob. "Promise me, Orc... promise me that you'll kill me quickly after you've got what you want. Promise me."

"No. You will get no promises from me. Just pain. Talk."

The Orc might be unsavoury, but he was certainly effective. As Modryn was rubbing the urine from his ebony armour with a rag torn from one of the dead Khajiits, the Argonian finally gave his answers. "Sap from the Hist tree." He shuddered as he surrendered the secret he'd fought to defend. "Sap from the Hist tree," he repeated, sobbing. "There. You have it. Now kill-"

"How? How does it work? What do you do with it?" demanded Gorgoth. "You give it to non-Argonians?"

Ajum-Kajin nodded. "It makes us... stronger. It also... no, no." A mere glance towards the black soul gem was enough to get him talking again. "It removes fear. No inhibitions... it creates mindless super-soldiers to do our bidding."

Modryn raised an eyebrow. He knew of the Hist, of course; the trees were of great importance to Argonians. But giving the sap to non-lizards... he cast his mind back to reports from the Leyawiin Guildhall. There _had_ been numerous complaints about unwarranted savagery by the Company over a few months. And sometimes patrols had come across some unexplained corpses, mutilated and violated. "He's telling the truth," he muttered.

"Where do you get it from?" asked Gorgoth.

"We have a Hist tree in the basement of our headquarters in Leyawiin." As though the words had removed all desire to live from him, the Argonian slumped weakly in his chair, breathing heavily.

"Azura help us," whispered Modryn. "A Hist tree, _here_, in Cyrodiil?" He shook his head. "How did-" No, it didn't matter how they'd got it here, or how they'd kept it a secret. All that mattered was that it existed and that it was the source of a large part of the Blackwood Company's effectiveness. "I think we've got all we need," he grunted. Gorgoth nodded in agreement.

"Please... make it quick," begged Ajum-Kajin, his voice barely audible.

"You or me, Modryn?" asked the warrior-shaman, picking up his summoned shortsword.

"You had the pleasure of torturing him. I'll do the killing." He actually doubted that Gorgoth took pleasure from anything, least of all torture, but the point stood. The Orc nodded and offered the shortsword to him, hilt first. Modryn took it and plunged it into Ajum-Kajin's throat without ceremony, leaving it there as the Argonian choked on his own blood. "We should move as quickly as possible. If we can convince Count Caro to move against the Company..."

""He has a wounded city to rule, and the Company is helping keep the peace until he can train new replacements for his guard, last time I was there." Gorgoth shook his head as he pulled his gauntlets back on. "This is something we'll probably have to do ourselves."

The Dark Elf grunted as he collected up the papers on Ajum-Kajin's desk before leaving behind the warrior-shaman. "At least we won't have to worry about killing in broad daylight. Destroy the tree and kill the leadership in their Company Hall in Leyawiin. That'll do it. Cut off the head of the snake."

"Fitting. How soon do we strike?"

"I might need a few days to gather the men and evidence-"

"Forget the men. I could destroy the Company down to the last man myself if I had to. Just make sure we won't be arrested. And talk to Donton if you can."

Modryn frowned at his companion as they made their way up towards the surface. "You make it sound as though you're going without me."

"That is the plan. You will be needed to consolidate at home and make sure that we can capitalise effectively. Once the Company is eradicated, we can turn our mind to internal affairs."

"You make it sound like you're planning a coup."

"Once confronted with this evidence, Donton will be forced to admit that she was wrong. The choice will be hers to make, but I doubt we'll be out in the wilderness much longer."

The Dunmer rubbed his chin. Everything Gorgoth was saying made sense; once he'd destroyed the Company and proved its illegal status and operations, the two of them would be vindicated and Vilena Donton even more discredited than before. Popular feeling in the Guild was very much against her, and if the two of them managed to restore its status and eliminate a rival... "You know, for an Orc, you're pretty smart. I'll give you that." He smiled. "Send the Company to rot in Oblivion. When do you leave?"

"Now."

* * *

Gnaeus had departed to Cloud Ruler Temple to 'make sure they haven't forgotten about the old man' shortly after they left Glademist Cave, and Gorgoth had gone south, cutting through the forest to make better time as he headed for Leyawiin to deal with the Blackwood Company. That left Ilend and Aerin to fall in beside Oreyn as he led the way back to Chorrol. He'd insisted on their company so that he could talk the Imperial through the radical shake-up the Guild was expected to receive over the coming days. It was hard to talk at a fast trot, however, so once night had fallen they stopped to make camp just off the road.

"You seem optimistic," observed the Imperial as they watched Aerin roast some venison over their campfire. He himself certainly wasn't in the habit of making plans that hinged on events that might not even happen.

"Have I ever had a reason to doubt our green-skinned friend?" asked Oreyn, idly sharpening his ebony dagger. "No, he'll destroy the Company and its credibility, I'm sure of it. And when news of that reaches Chorrol, I'll be in place to ensure the Guild benefits the most."

Ilend snorted. "I never had you down as a politician."

"I do what I have to do." The Dunmer sighed and looked up through the trees at the clouds covering the sky. "I was Champion for near enough forty years, and never before has the Guild been led as badly as this." He shook his head. "I've survived three Guildmasters. When Donton took over thirty years ago, I was offered the job first by her predecessor, Borian. Not many people remember that now."

The Protector raised an eyebrow. "Why didn't you take it?" It had been rumoured for some time that it was Oreyn who really led the Guild; if he'd led it in name rather than just in effect, things might have been a lot different.

Oreyn laughed bitterly. "I'm a warrior, Vonius. I'm a soldier, not some pen-pusher. Do you know how much documentation Donton has to deal with every day? She's sitting behind her desk more often than not. I'm not like that." He snorted. "I was a free-roaming mercenary for decades before I joined the Guild. I need freedom to operate. Being chained to a desk isn't my idea of duty. Champion suits me fine. Gets me a hand in decisions but I can still bash some skulls in whenever I get the urge."

"You make it sound like you're getting that position back."

"Of course I am, if Gorgoth succeeds. Do you really think I'd abandon the Guild completely just because of some woman mad with grief?" He dropped his whetstone and sheathed his dagger. "No, I've given the Guild loyal service and all I want is to continue that."

"What if Donton doesn't share your point of view?" From what Ilend had heard of the Guildmaster, she was more likely to behead Oreyn than reinstate him.

The Dark Elf snorted and leaned back against a tree, stretching his arms. "The Guild is with me. Most of us have had enough of Donton. If she doesn't see sense, she'll probably be forced to back down. I'll discuss it with the Chorrol Guild beforehand, of course..."

Ilend frowned. Something was missing in the plan of Oreyn's, sound as it was otherwise. "If she resigns and you won't take the job... who will be the next Guildmaster?"

"Good question. Immediately, I can't think of anyone, but within a few weeks of Donton's fall, there should be a clear-cut candidate." The Dunmer shrugged. "I'm thinking of a few. Azzan's good with paperwork, and he's run the Anvil branch with distinction for years. Ohtimbar over in Cheydinhal has years of experience, though I doubt he'd appreciate the spotlight. Ah-Malz in Skingrad is only a Warder, but he's been passed over for years. That's made him a tad bitter, but underneath he's a good leader."

The Protector rubbed at his temples. "Well, you've got it all figured out, I'm sure," he muttered. "But leave me out of all these politics. I want what's best for the Guild, for sure, but... I thought politics was for the Elder Council." Of course, inter-Guild politics would never compare to that load of ineffective hot air sitting in the Council Chambers, but Ilend preferred the simplicity of his sword and shield and having good men at his back.

Oreyn laughed. "Not to worry, Vonius, I've got other plans for you." His laughter faded as quickly as it came; the Dark Elf was most often serious, it seemed. "You've been in the Skingrad branch, of course, where you served well. But you were in the Kvatch City Watch before that." The Dunmer turned to look him in the eye. "I want you to go back to Kvatch and help rebuild the Guild there."

Ilend was so taken aback that for a second he could only gape. He sensed Aerin looking up from the spit, but right now he had eyes only for his former superior. "Kvatch is a ruin," he finally managed to get out.

"Don't you ever listen to the news? Anvil and Skingrad, along with most of the Cyrodilic cities, have sent aid. The camp at the foot of the plateau has been abandoned because they've moved back in. Refugees are returning. And Savlian Matius was elected Count."

"Captain Matius? Elected Count?" The Protector had fond memories of his old Watch Captain, that grizzled veteran who had kept the Watch together in that dark hour, but he'd always seemed too military in his bearing to ever lead an entire city. Then again, war had a habit of changing people.

"That's what I said. Under his leadership, Kvatch is rebuilding, and I want a Guildhall there again. Who better to lead it than you?"

"I... I'm only a Protector, Modryn. I don't have experience-"

"Don't be stupid." The Dunmer leaned closer. "I'm not deaf or blind to the exploits of Ilend Vonius, you know. You have three years experience as a Watch Sergeant, for starters. Then you survived Kvatch. You led a squad into an Oblivion Gate to save Skingrad. Then-"

"I know what I did," cut in Ilend. "But surely there are Guildsmen more capable than me."

"Who? There were only two survivors of the Kvatch Guild: Jongar and Fons Llendo. Neither leadership material. The other branches won't have many men to spare now that the war has taken its toll. But you... you have a connection to the city and you have more than enough experience of leadership." Oreyn smirked and turned his gaze to their companion. "And what say you, Aerin? Not like you to stay so quiet."

Caught off-guard, the Bosmer waited a few seconds before answering "He's a good choice," she said slowly. "You're right about him. And... he's a good man. I can vouch for that." An embarrassed flush crept over her cheeks and she hurriedly turned back to the venison.

The ex-Champion turned back to Ilend and smiled, a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth. "See? Even your bedwarmer, whom I've gathered quite dislikes me, agrees." Aerin muttered something incomprehensible under her breath.

Ilend pursed his lips. When he'd left Kvatch, he'd been convinced that he'd only return to visit. The Skingrad Guildhall would be a good place to live his life, and the Skingrad branch seemed like a good one. He could easily stay there, without much responsibility save for his own hide. Aerin would join him there, he was sure, and they might even be able to afford a small house after a few years. In Kvatch, however... it was his home as much as his birthplace of Skingrad had ever been. He'd shed blood to defend both cities, but it was the Battle of Kvatch that would always stay with him the most.

If he went to Kvatch to rebuild the Guild, he had no illusions about the life he'd lead. The city was still a ruin, and the work would be hard. There would be no comforts like there would be in Skingrad, no safety net, no one to take the responsibility away from him. But Oreyn was probably right; there might not be anyone better to lead the rebuilding effort. And the easy life in Skingrad might soften him. Kvatch would be a challenge, but if he truly wanted to best serve the Guild, he had no true choice.

He sighed. "I'll do it," he told Oreyn. The Dunmer smiled and started to speak, but the Protector held up a hand. "I'll need Guildsmen to help me, not just recruits from Kvatch. I'll want to pick my own, if they want to come."

"That can be arranged," agreed the ex-Champion, nodding slowly.

"I'll want a promotion. Protector isn't high enough for a Guild Steward."

"That's valid. As soon as we put this in motion I'll make you a Defender."

"And I want my cut from the Blackheart operation." Both Oreyn's eyebrows shot up, and Ilend though he could hear Aerin giggling under the sound of crackling flames.

"Your cut? That was a volunteer operation."

"Yet Aerin got twenty-five hundred. You took twenty thousand from that place. I saw the chests in your house. I deserve my cut, I think."

"Aerin got half-killed and did more to earn that than you did. Besides, that was Gorgoth's prerogative, not mine." Oreyn's eyes had narrowed, but it was clear that over by the fire, the archer was having trouble controlling her laughter. Predictable.

"I took wounds as well. It was a Fighters Guild operation, you said it yourself. That's how you justified taking that twenty thousand. And as one of the survivors of that operation, I'm demanding my pay." It had rankled when his lover had informed him exactly how much she'd been paid by Gorgoth for her role, especially when she'd given him the reasoning behind the warrior-shaman's decision to exempt him. Ilend had lost almost all his savings when Kvatch had gone up in flames, and while he'd got about a thousand septims back in Skingrad, it was always best to have a financial buffer in place. He didn't want to have to stay in Guildhalls forever just because he couldn't afford a house.

Oreyn grimaced. "Fifteen hundred," he growled.

"You'll be forking out thousands getting the Kvatch Guildhall up and running anyway."

"Two thousand."

"Better." Ilend leaned back and smiled. "All right, I'll take charge of the Kvatch Guild. But just remember that I'll probably be dead before the time comes anyway."

The Dunmer snorted. "You'd better not die on me now, Vonius, or I'll hunt you down through the depths of Oblivion to drag your carcass back up here to finish your job." He shook his head, unable to conceal his smile. "No, I think you'll survive. You'll insist on being near the danger in Bruma, I suppose, but you're a good soldier with a good head on your shoulders and a good girl to watch your back for you. You'll be fine." Aerin's head jerked up; she seemed to be even more surprised by the ex-Champion's sudden, unexpected praise than Ilend was.

"Nice of you to say so," remarked the Protector, slowly rising and making his way over to the fire, crouching down beside Aerin and putting his arm around her shoulders. "How much longer?"

"About ten minutes," she replied, smiling up at him as she turned the venison on its spit.

"Still keen on joining the Guild even though I'll be slaving away in a ruined city without many intact houses?"

She snorted. "Any bed will be warm enough with you in it," she told him, smirking and nudging him in the ribs.

He laughed and nudged her back. "Good to hear, Aerin." He always had been sure that she'd follow him to the Skingrad Guild, but Kvatch would have been a different prospect. Duty to the Guild was all over well, but not having his lover in Kvatch would have made the entire operation a lot less appealing.

Unbidden, his thoughts returned to _that_ night in Bruma a few days ago, before Gorgoth had arrived with Modryn's letter to shake them out of their stupor. It had turned out that Aerin was inexhaustible in bed, despite her small size and inexperience; every time he had drifted off to sleep, she had woken him again. Not that he had been complaining. She had limped for two days after that, but told him that the pain had been more than worth it.

"Vonius." Oreyn's voice broke through his memories and brought him back to the present. The Dunmer was standing at the edge of the hollow where they'd made camp. "Can I have a word?"

"All right," responded Ilend cautiously, rising slowly and giving Aerin's hand a squeeze before following the ex-Champion to a clump of bushes out of her earshot. "What is it?"

"Have you bedded her yet?" asked Oreyn, his gaze direct and his tone blunt.

The Protector raised an eyebrow. He didn't like this. "Yes. What's it to you?" In his opinion, there were certain private matters that should always stay private.

Sighing, the Dunmer scratched his chin. "She's in love with you and you with her, that much is certain. It was certain the first time I laid eyes on you together." The Dark Elf closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "I've lived for over a century, Vonius. I've bedded more women than you can count, most likely. I probably have a few bastards running around. I don't keep track of them like our Orcish friend does. But the point is, my bedwarmers were all _elves_."

"I know full well that Aerin is an elf. What are you getting at? You don't like half-breeds?" He knew of the stigma that many half-breeds had to battle through; there had been a few notable half-breeds in Kvatch while he was in the City Watch. Sometimes he'd had to intervene in the pubs to keep drunken purists from beating them bloody, though mercifully it wasn't as bad as that normally, particularly in Cyrodiil; it was a melting pot of cultures compared to some of the other provinces.

"It's not that. You can pop out as many half-elves as you like and I wouldn't give a damn. They could even be assets to the Guild if you raise them properly. No, the main problem is age." The ex-Champion sighed and laid a hand on Ilend's shoulder. "When you're eighty, your hair will be gone, your teeth will have fallen out. You might not be able to walk and I doubt you'll be able to swing a sword like you used to. You'll have wrinkles and your eyes will probably be going. Aerin, on the other hand... Aerin will still be in her prime. Still as good to look at as she is today." There was a hint of sadness in those crimson eyes as they met Ilend's. "After you're dead, she'll still have at least a century alone unless war or disease claims her. Such is the plight of elves who love humans."

The Imperial sighed. "I know, Oreyn, I know. But we both know what we're getting into." He grasped the Dunmer's hand and gently removed it from his shoulder. "We know that might happen. But right now, we both might not survive to the end of the month." He leaned closer. "Love is such a precious thing that it's best to experience what you can of it, when you can. That's what we're both determined to do. We'll worry about my age when the time comes."

A slow smile spread over the ex-Champion's face as he slowly nodded in agreement. "In that case, Ilend, I wish you all the best."

The Guildsman returned the smile. It was the first time the Dunmer had used his first name. "Thanks, Modryn."

Grunting, the Dark Elf turned back towards their camp. "Well, don't die, you hear?" he said gruffly. "The Guild could use more like you. Now piss off and go back to your elf before I get too sentimental. Go on." He gave Ilend a slight shove towards the camp. The Imperial was only too happy to oblige, a grin spreading over his face.

* * *

Grandmaster Marcus Steffan of the Blades was tempted to close his eyes and rub his aching temples. But such a display of weakness wouldn't be wise in front of several of his men, who included the Captain of the Imperial Bodyguard, the Captain of the Temple Garrison, and the Emperor himself. "You're completely sure?" he asked, his voice slightly raised to drown out the crackling of the fire in the Great Hall.

"I'm sure," sighed Martin, leaning back in his chair. "We needed the blood of an Aedra to balance the blood of a Daedra, so it's logical that we need a Great Sigil Stone to balance the Great Welkynd Stone."

"And there's no other way to get one?" asked Captain Varsis, standing in front of the fire with both hands clenched around the hilt of his katana. The new Captain of the Temple Garrison had settled into his new role well; that, at least, was good news.

"No. We have to let the enemy open a Great Gate." The Emperor's voice was heavy with fatigue, and he looked tired; the translation had drained him, as it always did, but this last revelation had clearly been a blow to him.

"In that case..." the Grandmaster slowly rose, drawing every eye in the hall. As well as his captains, there were over thirty off-duty Blades who had accumulated. "We'll prepare for battle," he ordered, voice hard as he turned to Renault. "Send messengers to the cities of Cyrodiil, to the Elder Council, to the Arcane University... to anyone who might help us. Thousands came out of the Great Gate at Kvatch. We'll need thousands to stop them here." There were about twenty-five hundred soldiers in and around Bruma at the moment, but they would need more. "Recall Gorgoth." The Hero of Kvatch would be needed without a doubt. Renault nodded and hurried off to send the appropriate messages.

Steffan turned to Baurus, standing behind Martin's chair. "How is the Emperor's armour coming along?" Some time ago, the ex-priest had been measured and Jauffre had commissioned a suit of plate armour made for him; Uriel's armour was back in the Imperial Palace, and it probably wouldn't have been a perfect fit for his heir in any case.

"Finishing touches, Grandmaster," reported Baurus. "After the enamelling, all it needs is enchanting."

Before Steffan could respond, Martin had slowly risen from his chair. "Good," he said. "I'll need it for the battle. I intend to lead our forces." Tired he might be, but there was steel in that gaze and his voice.

The Grandmaster resisted the temptation to smile. "Are you sure, sire?" he asked. "If you die, the-"

"I'm fully aware of the implications of my death, Steffan." The Imperial gazed into the flames. "But a true leader of men does not ask them to go where he dare not." He shook his head as he turned. "Unless I lead my men in this battle, I will be no true Emperor."

This time, Steffan let his smile slip onto his face. "Now you sound like Uriel V, sire," he told his liege. "Every true soldier on that battlefield will fight twice as hard when he sees you protecting your realm with sword in hand."

Martin raised an eyebrow. "I was convinced that you would try to talk me out of it."

"I am not Jauffre, sire. He would have tried, undoubtedly, but... I recognise that in dark times such as these, we need a strong Emperor." He smile grew wider as he clapped the Emperor-to-be on the shoulder. "You'll be a good ruler, sire. But I would advise you to go to Lathar. He can tell you if you've grown rusty." He knew that Martin, while keeping to the fitness regime thought up by the drillmaster, hadn't practised with sword or armour for at least a week.

The heir nodded. "I'll get some sleep first, but now that I no longer have the Xarxes distracting me, I'll have more time." He turned and left the Great Hall.

Half the Blades in the had already dispersed, presumably to prepare for the upcoming battle. The Grandmaster motioned to Captain Varsis and led him out of the hall, walking towards his office. "What do you think of our situation, Captain?" he asked.

"We need more men," replied his fellow Imperial. "Twenty-five hundred trained men is a large force considering, but from what I heard of Kvatch..." He shook his head. "A Great Gate can spew thousands of Daedra in minutes, I'm guessing. Burd can grab a thousand men of Bruma and conscript them this very minute, but they'll barely have any training. It'd be a slaughter if he did that."

"Which is why he hasn't. We need to redouble our efforts to get men from the other cities. And we need Ocato to see sense. If we had a single field legion..." A snarl briefly distorted Steffan's face before he forced it away. There was no point in wasting time getting angry over what Ocato hadn't given them. "How badly stretched are our coffers?"

"We can afford to pay for a sizeable number of sellswords if they show up. Spreading the word far and wide has brought them in, but their numbers are slowing to a trickle after the initial deluge."

The Grandmaster nodded as he pushed open the door to his office and bade Varsis close it behind him. It was unchanged; there had been no time for him to personalise it since the death of Jauffre. It remained sparse, with no carpet or ornamentation, just three chairs, a paper-covered desk and a window. "Any news from the Guilds?"

"The Fighters Guild is in turmoil," responded the Knight Captain, sighing as he sank down into the chair opposite Steffan and removing his helmet. "Vilena Donton hasn't responded to our messages. The only Guildsmen we have are from the small branch in Bruma." The Imperial closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair. "And the Mages Guild isn't much better. Traven has recently died, and we have no idea where his successor is. There isn't much hope for either of them sparing many men."

"We can hold until we have the numbers," muttered Steffan. "Men with Gate experience are passing on the lessons to others. And most of those we have are already good fighters." From what Burd was telling him, all the men sent by the other cities were effective soldiers and good examples of the Imperial Legion. The mercenaries would be, as ever, a mixed bunch, but many of them would be skilled warriors due to the nature of their profession. Encouraging signs.

"We might get more men over time, true, but we bleed every day," pressed Varsis. "Soon enough, the Mythic Dawn will be refined enough to open a Great Gate whether we let them or not."

"I know, damn it, I know!" barked the Grandmaster, slamming his fist down on the table. A pile of papers toppled, spreading over the floor. He cursed them and contemplated reaching into the desk's drawers for a bottle of flin, but decided against it. A clear head was needed, now more than ever. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. The demands of his new office were nothing new to him – he had been acting Grandmaster several times in the last year – but now there was no Jauffre to take back command.

"Bad time to get promoted, eh?" asked his fellow Imperial, failing to suppress a smirk.

"You said it, friend," replied Steffan, chuckling. "How many of the men still call you Glenroy?"

"Fewer every day, thankfully." The Knight Captain grimaced. "It can get embarrassing, correcting people because they're calling me a name they've known me by for years..."

"I know how _that_ feels. Course, if you miss it, you can always ask Lathar to give you a training session. You should hear what he calls the Emperor." Both of them laughed as the Grandmaster gave in and brought out the bottle of flin and two tumblers. "One each," he said, pouring for both of them. "We've got a lot to get done and no time to do it in." He raised his glass. "Here's to Martin."

"I'll drink to him," agreed Varsis, downing his shot in one and slamming the tumbler down on the table. Steffan emulated him, the strong spirits burning his throat as they went down. _Damn, that felt good_.

"If both of us survive, we'll have to finish this one day," he told his Captain of the Temple Garrison as he returned the flin to its drawer before standing. "But that's enough for now. See to your duties. We have an empire to save."

* * *

From a distance, Leyawiin appeared largely unchanged from how it was before the battle. It was only as Gorgoth drew near that he saw that the gates were crude, temporary replacements, and that large parts of the wall were still scorched. The remnants of the portal to Oblivion near the West Gate served as a grim reminder of how close the city had come to destruction. Fortunately for travellers, however, the Five Riders Stables were largely untouched. As the ostler stabled Baluk for him, the Orc spotted Vorguz in the meadow behind the building. Atahba had clearly done what he'd been paid to do; the broken stallion now had his well-deserved peaceful retirement.

The overcast sky gave the city an even more dismal atmosphere than usual as the warrior-shaman approached the West Gate. Fortunately, the six guards all wore the white stallion of Leyawiin on their surcoats; the City Watch would still be depleted from the battle, but at least they were no longer using mercenaries to keep the peace. They stood up marginally straighter as he approached, and one stepped forward clutching a halberd almost as tall as he was. "I recognise you," he said, peering up at Gorgoth's face from behind his helmet. Those eyes were hard, his demeanour both confident and alert. He was a veteran of the battle for sure.

"I thought you might," responded the Orc, casting his gaze over the Imperial's companions. All of them lacked that hard edge that pitched battle or long years of experience would give them. New recruits or conscripts, most likely. Two were Argonians; clearly, the Count had relaxed any racial bias there might have been in the Legion, at least for his own garrison. "Is this gate open for use?" Two of the youngest guards were looking at him like he was Akatosh made flesh. The others, thankfully, were doing their duty and watching the surrounding area for any sign of danger.

"For those who have legitimate business, yes," the guard told him, waving up at the walls. Moments later, the unpainted, crooked gates started to swing open. "No need to ask you yours, of course. You're the Hero of Kvatch." He wasn't a hero-worshipper like the two boys in his squad, but there was definitely a healthy level of respect in his tone.

"Even so, it's best that you do your duty with no exceptions," replied Gorgoth. "I'm here to see the Count. Where is he?"

If the guardsman took insult at the subtle reprimand, he wisely didn't show it. "If he's not in the County Hall, he'll be in the barracks with Captain Draconis." The gates finished swinging inwards, and the Imperial bowed his head briefly. "Don't let me keep you."

"Carry on, guardsman." The Orc turned and entered Leyawiin. At a glance, it mostly appeared to be unchanged from how it had been before Dagon's invasion, but closer examination revealed traces of the desperate battle that had been fought here. A large scorched circle of hard, black earth just inside the gate was an obvious reminder of the spell that had slaughtered the Daedric attackers. Other areas were burnt as well, however; the inhabitants of the nearby houses would have had to thank the damp atmosphere for preventing anything worse than scorched timbers and some dented walls. And, of course, there would be the smell; he was willing to bet that if he knelt and smelt the wet, muddy earth, he would catch some scent of the blood and fire that had prevailed that day.

But, of course, it was no Kvatch. The citizens were going about their everyday business without much change, though wariness was prevalent everywhere. Some wore hunted expressions, some were obviously fearful, and the white-and-green surcoat of the City Watch was visible everywhere. As Gorgoth walked through the throng, many turned to gaze at him. Several pointed, and a low buzz of conversation reached his ears. A few fools cheered. Of course they would worship their Hero of Leyawiin, the Orc who had saved their city in such dramatic fashion, while ignoring the many who had been equally heroic; Lurog, Mazoga and Dralasa had been instrumental long before he had arrived, but he suspected that few would remember them. He wondered if they would love Gorgoth gro-Kharz as much as they loved their Hero. Almost definitely not.

He passed through the crowd without incident, ignoring the few who tried to talk to him, and reached the heavily-guarded Castle Leyawiin. The Watch Sergeant at the gates to the courtyard directed him to the barracks. As he approached, the Orc noted with some satisfaction that the courtyard was full of new recruits being drilled by veterans of the battle. Captain Draconis certainly had some degree of competence.

She was in the barracks, leaning over a table and poring over a map of Leyawiin that was held in place by her helmet and gauntlets. Her auburn hair hung over her face, and her brown eyes were tired, but it was clear that she wasn't going to rest until she was satisfied that her City Watch was back up to something approaching strength. Definitely competent. Beside her stood Count Marius Caro. In the barracks, he looked slightly out of place in his upper-class finery, but he'd proved his worth in the battle. He was almost certainly the only Count in Cyrodiil to have faced the enemy invaders personally and shed blood in defence of his city. For that, Gorgoth was willing to respect him.

The ruler of Leyawiin looked up as the Orc approached. He was past thirty and already balding, but his broad shoulders and slightly muscular build meant that he certainly wouldn't look out of place in armour, and he wore the longsword at his hip like it belonged there. Of course, the last time the warrior-shaman had seen him, he'd been irritable and still recovering from the wound he'd taken in the fighting, but now he was fully recovered with his courtesy back in place. "It is good to see you again, Gorgoth," he stated, moving around the table and holding out his hand. The sincerity in his eyes meant that he wasn't completely lying.

The Orsimer removed his gauntlet and clasped the Imperial's hand firmly, feeling swordsman's calluses. "Have there been any other Gates?" he asked.

"None," responded the Count. "We heard some accounts of a few just over the border in Black Marsh, but the Argonians dealt with them well enough."

"Have you sent any men to Bruma? There are Gates opening there every day, near enough, and the fighting will only get harder."

Caro's face twisted into a grimace as he turned back to the table. "The battle left us with barely fifty fit men in the Watch," he sighed. "We've got our numbers back up to two hundred and fifty, but most of them are green. I won't send them north to their deaths." Gorgoth could see the conflict on the Count's face; on one hand, he didn't want to fail Bruma in its time of need, but on the other, he cared for his men; stripping Leyawiin of its veterans would leave few enough to train the new recruits, and sending the new unbloodied men would mean untenable casualties.

"Soon the time might come to make a decision," he warned Caro. "But that is not why I came. I have business with the Blackwood Company."

The Imperial raised an eyebrow and exchanged a glance with his Watch Captain. "What do you want with them?"

Gorgoth folded his arms and met his gaze. "The Blackwood Company are outlaws who regularly send their men out to do illegal contracts by having them ingest Hist sap from a tree that they've smuggled into their Company Hall."

"Do you have any proof?" asked the Count after a few seconds, his incredulity swiftly controlled as he forced his face into a neutral expression.

"What I know was extracted from a higher-ranking member. You'll get tangible proof when I destroy their headquarters and bring you part of their tree."

The ruler of Leyawiin grimaced. "While I've got no liking for those unscrupulous bastards at the Company... I can't act without proof. I can't sanction this operation of yours. And I-"

"I did not come here for your approval. I merely thought that it was common courtesy to inform a Count when you're about to slaughter some inhabitants of his city."

Caro exchanged another look with his Watch Captain, who shrugged. Shaking his head, the Imperial leaned closer. "Do what you want to the Company," he muttered, his voice low. "But keep it contained. I don't want violence in my streets. Bring me the proof and I'll have the City Watch round up the Company, but until you have it, don't be too... obvious."

Gorgoth nodded. "I'll be discreet if I have to." He'd rather not have to defy the Leyawiin City Watch to get at Ri'Zakar and his tree, but he would if he had to. "Expect me back before the day is out." He turned on his heel and left the barracks.

It had begun to rain in his brief stay inside, but he ignored the water beating on his armour as he made his way over to the Blackwood Company Hall. All around him, the population of Leyawiin lowered their heads and hastened their steps, clearly used to the dreary weather. He dismissed the thought of calling upon his former comrades in the Guild to help; some might be of use, but in this case he would work best alone.

The headquarters of the Blackwood Company was a large, long wooden hall near the centre of Leyawiin. The sword-and-axe were prominently engraved into the large double doors and into the sign that hung above them. There were no guards in evidence at the doors, but a glance around the square revealed a few green surcoats amongst the crowd. They wouldn't matter; once he was inside, the Company was doomed and no intervention would save it. Walking up to the building, he stole a quick look around the square before placing both hands on the wooden walls. Closing his eyes and concentrating, he placed an enveloping Illusion spell around the building, stepping back as it seeped into the timbers. No sound would escape until he ceased his maintenance of the spell.

Moving over to the doors, he found them locked. A quick, simple unlocking spell dealt with that. He pushed them open and entered, closing the doors behind him and subtly sealing them with a magical shield before looking around. The entrance hall was fairly spacious, with stairs leading to a balcony and the upper level. Through another pair of double doors right in front of him was clearly the dining hall; most of the Company was in there, sitting on the long benches and eating lunch. None were interested in him, but the handful of Company men lounging around in the entrance hall certainly were.

"I don't recognise you," claimed an Argonian, looking up from where he was sharpening his longsword. Up above, a Khajiit leaning on the balcony frowned down at him. The mixture of races sitting in the entrance hall were mostly regarding him with suspicious curiosity, but there was no outright alarm; he might simply be a Company member returning to the Hall without his surcoat.

"Didn't I see you in the Fighters Guildhall once?" asked a Redguard, narrowing his eyes suspiciously as he rose to his feet, his hand dropping to rest on the haft of his war axe.

Gorgoth did not reply; instead, he took two steps forward and peered into the canteen. There had to be at least ninety men in there, and more would be around the Hall; there would be an underground section, as the area above ground was far too small to host the entire Company. "I asked you a question, greenskin," barked the Redguard, grabbing the Orc's arm.

"Yes, you did," responded Gorgoth, turning to meet the man's gaze before shoving him away, drawing Sinweaver and the Thornblade. Before anyone could raise the alarm, a hundred jagged lightning bolts shot from the end of each blade, scything into the dining hall and cutting down Company men as they ate. Within seconds, the air was rich with the stench of burning flesh and shattered corpses were all that remained of most of the strength of the Blackwood Company.

The inhabitants of the entrance hall had survived unscathed, but none seemed particularly intent on challenging him. "You... you..." the Redguard frantically reached for his axe as he stumbled backwards. The Orc moved smoothly forward and impaled him on Sinweaver, kicking the corpse off the Ayleid blade as one of the Argonians finally found his voice and shouted for help.

As blood started to stain the wood of the floorboards, a bell started to toll in the depths of the hall, and he could hear doors throughout the building slamming open, footsteps rushing over the floor upstairs. The Khajiit who had been on the balcony was watching the slaughter of his comrades with wide eyes, seemingly paralysed with fear until one of his Imperial comrades slapped him around the back of the head as he dashed past. By that time, both of the warrior-shaman's blades were crimson to the hilt. He spun swiftly on his heel to deal with the Imperial as the Company man slipped on the wet floor, leaving himself open to the slash that cut off the top of his skull.

"Are any of you worthy of calling yourselves warriors?" snarled the Orc, glaring around at the few survivors in sight, who were cautiously backing away from him, fear evident in their eyes.

The Khajiit on the balcony shuffled backwards and turned to run, only to find his way blocked by another Khajiit. This larger, braver feline shoved his compatriot out of the way and strode up to the railing, glaring down at the Orcish invader. He was clad in dark steel mail from neck to ankles, and two shortswords were grasped in bare fists. "Try me, Guildsman," he growled, vaulting over the railing and landing lightly in front of the Orsimer.

He was tall and muscular for a Khajiit, almost reaching Gorgoth's chin, with deep red fur and chilling golden eyes. His hair was tied tightly back into a pair of braids, in similar fashion to the Orc's own hair. Slashing the air in front of him with both swords, he settled into a half-crouch, poised to dart in any direction. "Ri'Zakar," stated the warrior-shaman, firmly plating his feet and sheathing the Thornblade, grasping Sinweaver's hilt firmly in his right hand.

It was not a question, but the Pakseech nodded nonetheless. "I know my death when I see it," he rasped, eyeing the darkly glowing claymore in the Orc's hand. There was a sense of finality in his voice, the tone an old warrior might use when he suspects the end had finally come.

"Where is the Hist Tree?" asked Gorgoth, glancing around the hall. There were no more than five other Company men in attendance, all with weapons drawn. There was a large empty space around him and their leader; conspicuously, no one was taking a stand beside him. Their fear was almost palpable.

"A steel kiss is all you'll have from me, Orc," snarled Ri'Zakar, leaping forward. The warrior-shaman moved to meet him, jerking backwards to avoid one blow and parrying the other with Sinweaver before slamming his free fist into the cat-man's chest, forcing him backwards and into the perfect range for the claymore. He swung quickly with speed that few would imagine possible with a one-handed grip on such a heavy weapon, forcing the Khajiit to block with both swords, knocking him off balance. The Pakseech recovered quickly, however, and span around to the Orc's rear, landing two ineffective hits on his backplate before he could turn.

Ducking low under Gorgoth's riposte, the cat-man surged up to within his reach again, thrusting towards what weak points he could see in the Akaviri-styled plate. The Orc hammered his fist into one arm, knocking it aside, and caught the other blade with Sinweaver's guard, locking the blades together as he kicked the Khajiit in the stomach, sending him staggering backwards. Darting forward, he grabbed one of the Pakseech's wrists in his left hand, holding it tight in a vice grip as he wrenched his blade free before slashing towards his enemy's neck.

Spitting obscenities, the cat-man parried the warrior-shaman's blow again as he twisted and ducked in an attempt to free himself. A sweeping kick at Gorgoth's ankles resulted only in the Khajiit being picked up and thrown across the room. As he surged to his feet, the Orc was already bearing down on him, swinging with such power that the Khajiit's block sent him reeling onto the ground again with a deep notch in one of his blades. The Orsimer pinned him to the floor with a boot on his chest and cut downwards.

Ri'Zakar reached up and grabbed his leg in both hands, pulling at him with all his strength and succeeding in hauling the massive Orc down to join him on the floor. Unfortunately for the Khajiit, Gorgoth turned his move against him and threw himself down on top of the cat-man's leg as he tried to scramble free. Even in this comparatively light plate armour, the warrior-shaman had to weigh well over twenty stone. He felt the Pakseech's leg shatter under his weight and wasted no time in rolling over onto his chest and slamming his plate-clad fist down into the Khajiit's face, again and again, until nothing remained but a bloody mess.

Hearing rapid footsteps crossing the wooden floor, the Orc got to his feet in time to parry a wild lunge from a Redguard, forcing his sword aside and cutting his shoulder open with a powerful slash. He stepped back to watch as the Company man staggered backwards, eyes going wide as his sword dropped from numb fingers. The Redguard clutched at his shoulder and started to retch as a sickly, corrupt blackness spread over what could be seen of his tanned skin. He fell to the ground, writhing and gurgling desperately as the blackness swiftly claimed the rest of his body. The corpse continued to twitch for some time.

Gorgoth looked each of the survivors in the eye, raising his left fist, still dripping with blood and bone and brain matter. "If you do not waste my time by forcing me to fight you all, you will not end up like him," he told them, nodding towards what used to be a Redguard. "Or him." His thumb jerked over his shoulder at Ri'Zakar's shattered body.

The choice was obvious for cowards such as these. One by one, the four Company men came to kneel in front of him and lay their weapons at his feet. True to his word, the warrior-shaman gave them the mercy of a quick death, spikes of Destruction magicka plunging into their souls and ending their existence on this realm. The lifeless bodies slumped over in front of him, leaving him alone with the dead.

After wiping his gauntlet and sword clean on a rag torn from a surcoat, he renewed his spell of life detection and looked around. As he'd predicted, there was an underground section; no life remained above ground, but there were several figures moving around downstairs. That was probably where the tree would be; it was unlikely that they would keep it in plain sight of any visitor to their hall. After kicking open a few doors, he finally found some steps leading downwards. He advanced with Blood King in his fist, left hand raised with various spells at the ready.

A heavy oak door soon confronted him, and he pushed it open, walking into a stone-floored cavernous chamber. The room was dominated by what had to be the Hist tree: a tall pine with a thick, grotesque trunk. It stood in a small expanse of black soil in the middle of the chamber, with Dwemer piping attached to various parts of the roots and trunk. Steam was thick in the air, and the grinding, hissing noises of machinery had reached his ears the instant he'd opened the door. Gorgoth's face unconsciously twisted into a snarl; the Blackwood Company was desecrating a tree regarded as sacred by many Argonians.

There were six Argonians working on the machinery around the tree, and most didn't even see their deaths coming as the Destruction magic descended upon them. Instead of killing the last survivor, the Orc merely paralysed him and took his time in making his way over, looking around the chamber. The machines were large and complicated, taking up most of the space around the edges, but what they produced was clear to see; several barrels of a yellow, sticky sap were lined up against the far wall, along with several vials already full of the same substance. He took a sniff and recoiled; the foul, sickly sweet stench reeked of _wrongness_. Orcish berserkers were valued parts of any army, but using tainted Hist sap to turn mercenaries into berserkers and remove all moral inhibitions was something else entirely.

After disarming the last remaining Company man, Gorgoth released the paralysis spell and kicked him back to the ground when he tried to leap up. He was a young Argonian, clad in robes rather than armour and surcoat, and looked to be an apprentice rather than anyone of importance. Still, he would know what Gorgoth needed. He grabbed the front of his robes and lifted him bodily off the ground so they saw face to face, thrusting the point of a conjured shortsword just under his eye. "How do I stop this?" he asked, nodding towards the machinery.

"The pipes..." rasped the hapless lizard, waving in their direction, the terror plain in his deep-set green eyes. "They feed... the tree. Not enough... soil... Just break it... all." The Orc nodded and thrust his shortsword up into the Argonian's chest before dropping him and leaving him to drown in his own blood. He ran his hand over the pipes, feeling their thickness. Some seemed to be feeding the tree, while others collected the sap. Shrugging, he took one of the vials of Hist sap and walked over to the door that led upstairs before turning to give the Hist tree one last look. He raised his hand.

The entire chamber exploded, fire erupting from every piece of machinery in the room. Bark and sap flew everywhere as the Hist tree shattered, the pine needles vaporised by the maelstrom before they'd even started to fall. A magical shield protected Gorgoth from the complete ruin of the source of the Blackwood Company's power. When the explosions finally halted, only scorched stone, shattered machinery and splintered wood remained of their sordid operation. The Company was finished.

Gorgoth turned and left the room, ignoring the smoke curling up past him as he made his way back towards the surface. He had destroyed most of the Company's strength and killed their leader, and with the bottle in his hand, combined with the destruction below, he could convince the Count to take the rest into custody. What happened then was no concern of his; Caro could hang them or pardon them, it mattered not. Their threat to his Guild was extinguished.

His thoughts turned to the Fighters Guild; Modryn would be back in Chorrol by now, making arrangements. It was almost certain that there would be a new Guildmaster; nearly everyone had lost all confidence in Vilena Donton. That would leave the way open for him to rejoin, and while he had business to take care of back in Orsinium, the Orc felt that he had a place in the Guild. A purpose. A cause. And that was good enough for him.

He dispelled the magic surrounding the building, banished his shield, and stepped out into the rain. Caro had not been idle, and apparently he was willing to stake much on Gorgoth's word; a full company of twenty guardsmen were stationed near the Company Hall, holding several disarmed members captive at sword point. Watch Captain Draconis stepped forward with an expectant expression. "You have proof, I assume?" she asked, looking over his shoulder at the thin wisps of smoke escaping from the open doors of the hall.

The warrior-shaman placed the vial of Hist sap into her hand. "I destroyed the rest," he told her. "That is what they were drinking. Question any of them and you will likely hear what they've been brainwashed to say, but you'll be able to infer enough."

She met his gaze for a few seconds before giving a short nod. "Thank you. I'll inform the Count." She motioned to her men before leading them off in the direction of the castle, taking their prisoners with them and leaving two men to guard the hall. Gorgoth felt something like satisfaction stirring within him, but he ruthlessly suppressed the emotion. The Company might have been destroyed, but there were far more dangerous enemies to contend with yet. He turned and headed towards the stables.

* * *

**A/N: And thus a quest line draws to a close... as does another, if you were paying close attention during Steffan's POV. In places, it's a very dialogue-heavy chapter... do let me know via a review if you have any feedback, because I can't improve otherwise. That's why I value reviews so much...**


	43. New Leaders

**A/N: At least update times seem to be consistent now. Let's hope I can keep that up as the fic nears the end (though the end isn't really in sight yet, not for me). Anyhow, thanks for the reviews, as ever:**

**PpC: Indeed. I hated the Company as well... and that kind of thing is probably commonplace if you're using a phone. My sympathies, though all I'll ever need from a phone is the capability of calling someone...**

**Orion the Awesome: I'm not sure. I'm hoping to keep it to one, but the flow might dictate a split. We'll see.**

**Random Reader: The new Arch-Mage has helped already... well, before she was Arch-Mage, but nonetheless, she made her first appearance in Chapter 34. But anyhow, yes, battlemages will be of great use. Good to hear you're sticking around...**

**Rokibfd: Damned typos. Changed it. And yes, I've never seen differing life spans ever talked about in human/elf relations despite its importance. No, the Brotherhood's questline hasn't started because my DB fic will take place after the Oblivion Crisis. As for the Arch-Mage... you'll find out. As for magic, I made it more 'realistic', if such a term can be applied to magic. I wouldn't say that made it inherently more powerful, but it did make it more varied. But Gorgoth IS that powerful, yes. And as for the chapter name... the sigil of the Blackwood Company is a crossed sword and axe in front of a tree, and 'Broken Sword' sounded better than 'Broken Sword-and-Axe'. Also, the Company is now a broken sword; it's defeated and can't do anything. Finally, Gorgoth put a notch into Ri'Zakar's blade, though that's not really a breaking... As for Skyrim, I went for an axe-and-magic combo (oddly similar to Gorgoth's fighting style, with a weapon in the right hand with the left free for casting). Anyhow, good to hear you'll be around as well.**

**As ever, reviews will always help me, so leave one if you've taken the time to read this chapter.**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-three: New Leaders**

The Chorrol Guildhall had changed little since Modryn had last left it. Sitting at the dining table just off the entrance hall, he had a good view of the stark wooden floor and stone walls, the simple wall hangings, and the trophies that his predecessors had put on display. It smelt like home. This Guildhall had been his home for many years, and soon it would be his home again. But wood and stone and steel were not his interests at this moment. The Guildsmen sitting around the table – nearly twenty of them – were all looking to him. It was a sign of Donton's collapse that they were willing to submit to the leadership of an exile. But he would not be an exile for much longer.

It had been five days since Gorgoth had left them to go south. Five days that the ex-Champion had used as best he could. After using Ilend to run messages for the first day, he'd allowed him and his lover to head back to Bruma, where they were probably even now sharing a bed or fighting Dremora. This was the first time he'd felt confident enough to return to the Guildhall instead of holding meetings in his house. He'd been told that Donton rarely left her office when she even bothered to show up, so they were unlikely to be disturbed.

"We've got replies from Bruma, Cheydinhal, Skingrad, Bravil and the City," Kurz gro-Baroth was telling him. The Orcish Warder was in effective command of the Chorrol Guild, though Donton had threatened to expel him when he'd tentatively approached her about appointing a new Champion. "They're all in favour. It's clear to even the blindest idiot that the Guildmaster's lost it. No replies from Anvil or Leyawiin yet, but they'll come in time."

"Leyawiin will agree," replied Modryn, idly tapping his helmet, which rested on the table in front of him. He was fully armoured; coming garbed for battle had seemed somewhat fitting. "They've been under the boot of the Blackwood Company for so long that they'll agree when they learn it was Donton's fault that took us this long to take action." There were no rumours out of Leyawiin about the Company yet, which only increased the tension the Dunmer was feeling. All his plans rested on Gorgoth being successful, and while he was confident of the Orc's success, that didn't stop him worrying. His inner nerves were well hidden now, however; the Guildsmen around the table had compete trust in him, and he couldn't let them down now.

"So our plan now hinges on Gorgoth getting back with news of the Company's defeat?" asked Lum gro-Baroth, Kurz's more optimistic brother. Neither Orc was armoured, but their warhammers were strapped across their backs and both looked ready for action at any moment. They were good fighters, strong and loyal, exactly what the Guild needed, though neither much suited to political leadership. The fact that Kurz was effectively running the largest Guildhall in Tamriel spoke much of the Guild's troubles.

"Indeed," agreed Modryn. That was all he needed from the warrior-shaman; he had everything else in hand himself. Some of Ajum-Kajin's papers had given him exactly what he needed; proof of the Company's involvement not only in the death of Viranus Donton, but in his brother's as well. Faced with irrefutable evidence along with the news of the Company's destruction, Donton would have no choice but to give in. He hoped. "He left us five days ago. He'll be back soon." Once again, the Dark Elf was waiting. He hoped that the Orc hadn't made it a habit.

Sabine Laul raised an eyebrow. "Five days from Chorrol to Leyawiin and back with death and destruction in between?" The Guild smith was a middle-aged Breton with wrinkles starting to show around her brown eyes, but her muscular arms could still swing a hammer with the best of them.

"This is Gorgoth we're talking about, Sabine," Modryn told her. "He might as well have been born in a saddle, given how he handles a horse." In truth, the ex-Champion knew nothing about the warrior-shaman's parentage, but his skill on horseback was undoubted; fitting, for someone who'd led heavy cavalry in battle.

"Either way, we shouldn't expect him to walk in through the door this minute. It's barely past noon." The Breton swept her shoulder-length brown hair out of her eyes and met his crimson gaze. "What part is he going to play in the Guild after things are settled, anyway?"

Modryn shrugged. He didn't know the Orc well enough to know exactly what he'd want, but he thought it safe to assume that he'd want at least a high position in the Guild. "He'll be involved, I'd imagine," he grunted. "I'll probably make him a Guardian, at least. Apart from that, he knows best about how he can serve. He can-" The thump of heavy footsteps upstairs cut him off in mid-sentence. Everyone froze as Vilena Donton slowly made her way down the stairs to gaze at her former Champion.

The Guildmaster was already nearing sixty, but appeared to have aged twenty years in the last few months. Her wrinkled skin hung loosely from her bones, and her once-muscular body had wasted away. Slumped shoulders and bloodshot eyes gave her a haggard, exhausted air, and her dress was draped loosely from her shoulders like a soiled rag. Yet there was emotion in those eyes; anger and distaste. "You," she snarled, raising a steady hand to point at the Dunmer. A longsword was still hanging from her sword belt, and while she would be no match for him in her current state, she would still know how to use it.

"Me," confirmed Modryn, rising and making his way around the table to stand in front of her. He'd almost expected this eventuality; all it meant was that he'd have to move before Gorgoth got back. No matter. The broken wretch in front of him was a walking corpse anyway, driven half-mad with grief. A blind Bosmer could see that. "I've come to restore the Guild to its former glory."

She slapped him. It was a full-armed blow, with most of her power behind it, but she wasn't as strong as she used to be. Even so, his cheek stung. "That wasn't very courteous," he observed. He was aware of the Guildsmen in their seats behind him watching intently. Some Associates had crept up from the basement and were watching with wide eyes.

"You have a nerve," hissed Donton. "You killed my children, then walk back in here like you own it. You-"

"You think your boys meant nothing to me?" roared Modryn, the fury in his voice forcing her to step backwards. "I fought and bled beside Vitellus for years before he was killed by Blackheart's men. And Viranus would have been a damn good fighter if the Company hadn't murdered him!" He stepped forward, forcing her backwards again. "When they died, I felt it as well, Donton," he snarled. "But the difference is, _I actually did something_."

"Like what?" she demanded, still slightly off-balance.

"On the table you'll find documents that prove the Blackwood Company murdered Viranus, supposedly to keep us off 'their turf'. And, again, I have proof that they were in league with Azani Blackheart. Gorgoth got you vengeance for Vitellus, by the way. Remember him? The Orc that you expelled simply because he brought you bad news and told you a few simple truths?" By now, the Dark Elf had backed the Guildmaster into the wall and was glaring at her, his eyes a few inches from hers.

"I-" Donton's retort was cut off by the doors to the Guildhall slamming open. Modryn stepped back to regard Gorgoth as he walked in, fully armoured and towering head and shoulders above everyone except his fellow Orcs. In his battered plate armour with weapons strapped to most of his body, he looked every inch a veteran.

"I assume the deed is done?" inquired the ex-Champion, raising an eyebrow as he folded his arms.

The warrior-shaman's cold amber eyes took in the scene before answering as the doors swung shut behind him. "The Blackwood Company has been destroyed. I killed Ri'Zakar and most of his men. Count Caro has the rest in his dungeons. The Hist tree has been destroyed."

A small smile twitched Modryn's lips. He'd always had confidence in the big Orc, but hearing the news still pleased him. That pleasure quickly soured, however, as he shot a sideways glance at Donton. "Good that you're finally here. I think our _honoured_ Guildmaster here will soon have a decision to make." Most of the Chorrol Guild – at least eighty fighters - was now within earshot.

The Guildmaster's eyes were darting between the two of them as she struggled to find words. "What decision?" she finally managed.

"You used to be a good leader," Modryn told her, eyes softening slightly as he recalled fighting by her side decades ago. The steel-clad ferocious warrior who had wielded a greatsword with admirable skill was as dead as her sons, however. "For many years, you led the Guild well. But that time ended a while ago. Your grief has led you downhill and now your incompetence will only lead you from one disaster to another. You have to go." His sharp words made her flinch, but he held her gaze. "Resign, for the good of the Guild."

Her lips were trembling. "What then? You would take over? _You!_"

The Dark Elf shook his head. "Not me. But I'll be the one to choose our next Guildmaster, if they're willing." He took a step forward, stabbing a finger into her shoulder. "If you reinstate me and Gorgoth, then resign, you can have a peaceful retirement with a good pension. It's the least you deserve for what you did in your... better days."

"And if I don't do as you say?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

Modryn spread his arms. Did he really have to spell it out for her? "I have the Guild unified behind me, Vilena," he told her. "You do not hold the power here any more. If you refuse, then..." A cruel smile crept onto his face. "As the longest-serving, highest-ranked surviving member, Burz gro-Khash would take command were something to happen to you. Not only is he the only person in the Guild who wants the top job less than me, but he would also be rather uncaring about what actually happened to you..." His grin must look truly horrible by now.

Behind him, Gorgoth stepped forward. "There is a need for soldiers around Bruma," he rumbled. "If I cut off your nose and left you with a few scars, no one would ever recognise you again. And I doubt you would survive long in any case." Modryn suppressed a wince; while he would go through with what the Orc was saying if he had to, he wished that the warrior-shaman had been more subtle.

Donton was shuffling backwards, a look of horror and disgust on her face. "You're both vermin," she hissed.

"Maybe that's true," said Tarad, a young Redguard Defender who, until recently, had been one of Donton's staunchest protectors. He'd changed his tune when Modryn had shown him the undeniable truth. He stood, blue eyes flashing as he glared down at his Guildmaster. "But at least they're doing what's best for the Guild. The same can't be said for you... unless you resign." He folded his arms across his broad chest and waited as most of the Guildsmen at the table stood, adding their mute agreement.

"But..." Donton was visibly trembling now. "He..." She was pointing at Modryn, but the words weren't coming.

"Yes, I took Vitellus with me to root out Azani Blackheart," sighed the ex-Champion. "Wasn't me who killed him. And yes, I sent Viranus to kill those trolls, well within his capabilities. It wasn't me who murdered him."

"He's right," growled Tarad. "It was the Blackwood company and Azani Blackheart who killed them. They're gone. No thanks to you. You stayed in your office and let your despair take you." His young, hard face softened slightly. "Retire and you can have your peace at last," he suggested. "Let others take the strain. It's the best thing you can do for your Guild."

"I..." The Imperial's voice trailed off as she sighed, shoulders slumping even further. "I've failed, haven't I?" she whispered, her voice so low it was hard to hear her.

Despite her actions, despite her decline, despite her complete ineptitude, Modryn felt a pang of sympathy for her. The woman had lost both her sons, after all; not an easy thing to take. While the ex-Champion had a few children of his own, they were bastards, the result of casual flings with serving girls and maids. He had never been a true father, and so couldn't empathise with his Guildmaster, but even so, he thought he might be able to understand why she had collapsed. However, any comfort he might have offered had been removed by the bitterness of his removal and the knowledge of what Donton had done to the Guild. "Yes, Donton. You've failed."

"You were weak," put in Gorgoth. His eyes were chips of yellow ice. "As a leader, you should be strong. You had a duty to everyone under your leadership. You betrayed them."

The Guildmaster squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds before opening them again. They were full of pain and regret. "Modryn Oreyn, I am reinstating you to the Fighters Guild with the rank of Champion."

A small smile twitched Modryn's lips, but he refused to let any more of his relief show. There was still much work to be done. "Now get Gorgoth back in. Make him a Guardian." It seemed ludicrous – the Orc had only been in the Guild for a matter of months – but he had more than proved his worth in these difficult days. He would be invaluable in a position of command.

Donton nodded. "Gorgoth gro-Kharz, I am reinstating you to the Fighters Guild with the rank of Guardian."

"No." Modryn's head jerked sideways, staring up at the Orc with open shock. "Make me Guildmaster." For a brief, crazy moment, the Dunmer thought his comrade was making a bad joke, but then remembered that Gorgoth didn't make jokes. All around were raised eyebrows and shocked expressions. Donton was gaping. This Orc, unknown to most of the Guild, in command? The notion would be laughable if the situation wasn't so serious. As ever, the warrior-shaman's face might as well have been hewn from granite for all the emotion it showed.

"Gorgoth..." He paused, unsure how to continue. That fearsome golden gaze turned to him. "You... don't know this Guild like I do. There are more suitable candidates-"

"Like who?" The warrior-shaman didn't let him answer, continuing on, his deep voice filling the Guildhall. "I have no doubt that there are capable officers. But do they have the right qualities? Are they men of true steel?" Gorgoth shook his head and looked around the hall. "I have not been in this Guild long, true. I joined merely because it was suggested as cover by the Blades." He paused to slowly walk across the hall to a display case containing a Dwemer battleaxe once wielded by a former Guildmaster. The Orc stared down at the mighty weapon for a few seconds before turning and sweeping the inhabitants of the Chorrol Fighters Guild with those frozen amber eyes.

"But in time, I realised this Guild is no mere collection of sellswords of the kind that are so common in High Rock. No, it is something more. It has a hint of brotherhood about it." The Orc shook his head. "Ordinary mercenaries will abandon their comrades and run when the battle turns against them. But Guildsmen... I know that Guildsmen will not do that. We fight side by side as brothers. Mercenaries are capable of honour, and there is plenty of it in this Guild." He clenched his fists. "And that is why I would give much to protect it, to bring down those who oppose it. I am proud to be a part of this Guild... and I would be honoured to lead it."

He turned to Modryn once again. "You say that there are more suitable candidates, Champion. You know this Guild better than me, of course, but I am no stranger to leadership. You might even say I was born to it." A curious, bitter smirk plucked at one corner of his mouth before fading. "I have led Orcish heavy cavalry in fierce battles, yes, but I also formed a mercenary company after I gained my independence. Ask any honest warrior in Orsinium and they will tell you how effective we were." He stepped forward, forcing the Dunmer to bend his neck to meet that gaze. "These are hard times, Modryn. The Guild needs strong leadership. And I am both hard and strong." His gaze fell upon Donton. "So, Guildmaster... make your decision."

As Donton fumbled for an answer, the Dark Elf forced his features back into neutrality. In truth, he'd never considered the Orc for the position; he was too new, too much of an unknown factor. But now... hurriedly, he re-evaluated the candidates for Guildmaster; Ohtimbar had only been in the Guild for three years, and though he was a formidable fighter, the administration might be beyond him. Ah-Malz was a good leader, but bitter over his lack of promotion and untried in some aspects. Azzan was probably the best choice, the Anvil branch having profited from his good, firm leadership over the years, but now that Gorgoth was in the picture... Modryn found himself wondering if the Redguard would even want the job. The grizzled, honourable Redguard would no doubt take it if no one else stepped up, but with competition...

"The Guild would need your full attention," he reminded the Orc. "You couldn't run it alongside whatever you've got going in Orsinium-"

"I could. When I am in Orsinium, I would have a strong Champion to command in my stead. And do not underestimate my magic. Travel times would not be a factor once I have the teleportation system in place."

_Teleportation system?_ The idea sounded mad even in Modryn's head, but he found himself recalling that day on the hill outside Atatar. The Dark Elf knew little of magic, but if the warrior-shaman was strong enough to devastate an entire army, developing a teleportation device surely couldn't be beyond his grasp. And Gorgoth was right again; having been effectively running large parts of the Guild since the death of Vitellus, Modryn was confident in his own abilities at keeping things going. He grunted.

"Donton... make him Guildmaster." The Imperial shot him an incredulous gaze, but the Dunmer cut off any protest. "Do it."

She took a deep, shaky breath. "I... resign from the position of Guildmaster of the Fighters Guild and appoint Gorgoth gro-Kharz my successor."

If the Orc was feeling anything, his face did not show it. He merely nodded. _Bloody typical,_ thought Modryn.

Those golden eyes turned to the warrior-shaman's predecessor. "Your last act, at least, was not without merit," he rumbled. "Go in peace. As Modryn promised, you'll have your pension."

Donton sighed. The ex-Guildmaster's eyes were dull now, almost without expression. "I'll... I'll go clear my desk," she mumbled, moving quickly up the stairs before anyone else could move.

Ignoring his predecessor, the new Guildmaster's eyes swept over everyone in the room. "Before anything else, I will need a scribe," he declared. "I can read perfectly well, but my writing is incomprehensible to most. I need someone skilled with their letters."

Modryn resisted the urge to sigh. It seemed almost laughable that their next Guildmaster would be effectively half-illiterate. Fortunately, one of the Associates stepped forward almost immediately, a short Imperial with a pale face and dark hair that made it look even paler. He couldn't have been much more than sixteen, and the longsword at his belt looked almost as out of place as the leather armour covering him from neck to toes. "I- I had a good tutor," he stammered, his nerves evident. "I can write for you, if you want."

Gorgoth glanced him over quickly and gave a short nod. "You might do," he grunted. "We'll see. For now-" He was cut off by a crash coming from upstairs. Modryn grunted and started off towards the stairs, but his new superior stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "In time," he rumbled. The Dunmer frowned but allowed the Orc to guide him back in place.

"There is much work to be done," the warrior-shaman continued, raising his voice so it carried throughout the Guildhall. "We have to rebuild. We have to find our strength again. But first, before we can turn our attention to reforming, there is another enemy that must be faced." He started pacing, thick arms swinging by his sides as his boots made the floorboards groan under his weight. "Mehrunes Dagon is massing for an assault on Bruma. The city needs every sword it can get."

"The Blades sent word," said Tarad. "Some of our number have already gone of their own accord."

"Not enough." Gorgoth paused in the centre of the entrance hall. Every eye was on him, everyone hanging on his every word. "The fate of Tamriel will hang in the balance at Bruma. For that, we must contribute more than a few swords. I will not have it said that the Fighters Guild stood idly by and watched while Dagon shattered our forces." He clenched a fist. "Return to your duties for now. But I will reassemble you soon enough. There is much to be done." As the Guildsmen slowly dispersed, he motioned for Modryn and his new scribe to follow him upstairs.

"You're making your mark quickly," remarked the Champion as they climbed up towards the Guildmaster's office.

"I have to. They have suffered from weak leadership from far too long. I have to assert myself." They reached the entrance to the office. It was on the top floor of the Guildhall, a wooden wall separating it entirely from the rest of the rooms. The walls were thick, and the large oak door in the centre would prevent much sound from leaving. The only windows in the office opened into clear air; the Guildmaster would have as much privacy as he desired. He paused outside his door and turned to his scribe. "How old are you, boy?"

"F-fifteen, Guildmaster," replied the Imperial, looking at his leader's breastplate rather than his face. He was a scrawny-looking thing, a thin youth who wasn't much over five feet tall. His thin arms and pasty expression, along with his well-crafted armour and unbloodied fine longsword, spoke of the spoiled son of a well-off family. Modryn could only wonder at why he had decided to join the Guild. "I-is that too young?" The Champion snorted and resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. This was the kind of Associate he used to shout at all day long in the training yard. They had always lived in fear of him.

"No. I killed my first man when I was younger than you. Best that you start early." The Orc slid a steel-clad finger under the boy's chin and forced his head upward. The Imperial's bright blue eyes flinched away from that golden gaze. No surprises there. "What is your name?"

"Vantus Wavrick," replied the Associate, clasping his hands together to stop them shaking.

Modryn raised an eyebrow. "Turns out we've got the son of the Countess's bloody Steward in the Guild," he remarked. "Well, boy, it seems you might have a bit of pampering to shake off. The training yard will see to that." A sadistic grin pulled at his lips. "Oh, yes. No matter what work the Guildmaster sets you, you'll still be expected to keep up your efforts in training." This, after all, was an organisation of mercenaries. No Associate was sent out on a contract until they were ready, of course, but nor were they allowed to stagnate. Gorgoth nodded in agreement and released his scribe, who grimaced as the Guildmaster turned to the door.

"We're mercenaries, Vantus. And I intend for us to be highly-skilled mercenaries." He pushed open the door. "War is here already, but there will be more battle, even afterwards. You must prepare yourself for that." He walked into his office, his scribe and his Champion walking in after him.

Modryn stopped dead just inside the doorway. In front of him, the Imperial squeaked and took a step backwards. Vilena Donton's body was hanging from the rafters, her sword belt tight around her neck. Her face was darkening, her eyes bulging from their sockets. Near her feet was an overturned chair. Gorgoth spared only a passing glance for the body of his predecessor before moving over to her cluttered desk. "You knew this was going to happen," rasped Modryn, tearing his eyes away from the former Guildmaster's face.

"I did not know. I merely suspected." The warrior-shaman shrugged. "It is of no consequence. She could have died with more honour at Bruma, but she chose this path. Malacath will judge her harshly." He looked around the spacious room, which was well-lit, with light pouring in from four windows illuminating the sparse furniture. Apart from the massive desk, there was little else; an armour stand and a weapon rack were against one wall, and a small bed was rammed up against the other, under a window. "I will have need of another chair and desk for Vantus," remarked the Orc, as though the corpse of his predecessor was not hanging mere feet from him. "And a larger bed."

"It'll be seen to," grunted Modryn, reminding himself once again of how hard and brutal Gorgoth was.

"Vantus, leave us. I will send for you later, when I have need of your services." The Imperial gave a shaky nod and dashed from the room. His Guildmaster leaned over the desk, examining some of the papers. "As for you, Champion Oreyn..." He paused, looking up and meeting the Dunmer's crimson eyes. "We have much work to do."

* * *

Bruma was firmly in the grasp of winter. Snow lay thickly on the ground, and the temperature was often below freezing even during they day. The nights were even colder, the guardsmen on the walls relying on their braziers to keep the blood circulating as they made their weary patrols. Some of the more desperate guardsmen from Bravil or Anvil could sometimes be heard saying that they would be thankful for an Oblivion Gate merely to stave off the cold for a while. Others shook their heads and warned the southerners of those who had died in Oblivion after making that wish.

At this given moment of time, however, Aerin wasn't finding it too cold. In fact, it could almost be said to be too _hot_ in the tiny room she and Ilend were sharing in one of the few inns still to have beds free. She sighed happily and rolled out of the bedroll onto the hard stone floor, a faint sheen of sweat still covering her naked body due to their exertions. The Wood Elf stood and stretched her arms, grunting in satisfaction at the feeling. Her loins were aching pleasantly.

Ilend silently looked up at her from the bedroll, leaning on one elbow. There was more than enough moonlight to see clearly, so she took the opportunity to study his impressive body; he was almost as tall as Lurog and built like a bear, with broad shoulders and thick slabs of muscle evident everywhere on his body. He also _looked_ like a bear in places; the thick forest of coarse black hair that covered his chest and much of his arms sometimes scratched her when they lay together, but she liked it. The hair on his head was much finer, but even darker, and now it was almost falling past his shoulders. He brushed that hair back out of his eyes and met her gaze. "You look like you're thinking," he remarked, still slightly breathless from their vigorous lovemaking.

"I'm thinking admiring thoughts," she giggled, walking over to the window and throwing it open, shivering slightly as the chill of the night hit her hot body.

"Odd..." mused Ilend, slowly getting to his feet and padding over to stand behind her, his hands on her shoulders. "You hate the cold of the north, and now you're welcoming it." She could sense his smirk as she leaned back into him, her loose auburn hair cascading over her body.

"It feels good on me skin. Well, it does _now_. You'll likely find me wrapped up and cursing the cold tomorrow when we head out."

"As usual, then." He sniggered. "Speaking of tomorrow, we should probably get some sleep. Much as I like-" A sharp rap on the door cut him off. "What?" he barked irritably.

"Captain Burd wants to see you," came a gruff voice from the other side of the door. "He's got a Blade with him."

Muttering curses, the Imperial stalked over to the door and wrenched it open. A Nord in the yellow-and-black uniform of the Bruma City Guard stood on the other side, peering into the small room. Under his inquisitive stare, Aerin blushed and covered her breasts with her hands before Ilend moved to block the guardsman's view. "Can't it wait?" growled the Guildsman.

"Afraid not," muttered the Nord, sounding apologetic. "He did sound insistent."

"Fine," sighed Ilend. "Give me time to change." The guardsman nodded and pulled the door shut. Grunting, the Imperial started to burrow around in the pile of his clothes while muttering darkly under his breath.

"Shall I keep the bed warm for you coming back?" asked Aerin, moving over to stand beside him as he pulled on his trousers.

He shrugged. "Do what you want. Hopefully, I won't be long, but..." He spread his arms. "I wouldn't want you getting cold and bored on my behalf. I doubt Lurog, Uriel and Dralasa are going to leave the common room until the early hours."

The Bosmer couldn't resist a chuckle. They'd been introduced to Dralasa when they'd arrived back in Bruma, and they'd both taken a liking to the half-mad, ever-flirtatious Dunmer. "I'll keep that in mind," she told her lover as he pulled on his shirt. "Want help with your armour?"

"If you would," he said, smiling gratefully. She shut the window – the air was now more than cold enough – and moved over to help him don his chainmail.

"So, what do ya reckon Burd wants?" she asked as she fastened his hauberk.

"No idea. He's got a Blade with him, though... could be something from Cloud Ruler Temple." The Imperial sat down to tug his boots on as Aerin tightened his greaves. "Might even be something to do with the Guild. From what I can tell from the Bruma Branch, Oreyn's not stopping for anything. His plan might even have succeeded by now."

The Bosmer shook her head as he pulled on his gauntlets. "Why would they take an interest in the Guild? It makes no sense."

He shrugged as she swept his thick cloak around his shoulders. "I don't know. But I'll be back before dawn." He turned and took her in his arms, lifting her off the floor so his mouth could reach hers. She returned the kiss with vigour, only reluctantly drawing apart when the increasingly impatient guard outside knocked on the door again. "I'll see you later," whispered Ilend, giving her one last smile before opening the door and walking out the their room.

As the door shut behind him, Aerin sighed and crawled into their bedroll. It was cold already; all the heat seemed to have left with Ilend. She shivered and closed her eyes, huddling under the blankets in an attempt to find some warmth. After a few minutes of restless fidgeting, she finally gave up; sleep wasn't going to come easily. Instead, she threw back the blankets and reached for her underclothes.

There'd be no need for armour in the common room, so dressing was a far simpler affair than her lover's; a pair of tight cloth trousers and a simple linen vest would suffice, given the roaring fire that would be kept up until the last patron went to bed. Her sword belt was almost an afterthought; her shortswords and dagger probably wouldn't see use tonight, but Ilend had warned her to keep herself armed with so many soldiers about. She pulled her leather boots on and made sure the window was secure before leaving the room.

It was easy to find her way down to the common room; there was still a considerable amount of noise coming from below. Given the number of soldiers in and around Bruma, the inns and taverns were making more money beer and ale than ever, and the Snowdrift Inn – where Ilend and Aerin were staying – was no exception. The common room was large, lit by several torches and a single roaring hearthfire which took up most of one wall. Tables of various shapes and sizes were crammed into the space available, and many were still occupied despite midnight drawing close. Most of the patrons were inevitably drunk.

The Bosmer – thankful for the warmth of the fire on her bare arms – moved further into the room, looking around. She knew some of the soldiers – a few were Gorgoth's sworn Orcs – but most were strangers to her. As she moved among the tables, fully conscious of her own attractiveness in a room full of drunken, rowdy men, she was fully expecting the barrage of lewd comments she attracted. When she was halfway to the fire, one Imperial, even more drunk that the others with ale dripping from his chin, staggered to his feet and lunged for her. He was an entire foot taller and probably twice as wide, but Aerin simply smirked. She nimbly sidestepped and kicked his foot from under him while giving him a powerful shove in the chest. He overbalanced and crashed into a table that was, unfortunately for him, occupied by four of Gorgoth's Orcs.

Leaving the ale-soaked drunkard to his fate, the Wood Elf grinned and walked lightly over to the table where Uriel Signus, Dralasa and Lurog were snorting with laughter. "If he's spilled Bulg's drink, then he's not going to want to wake up in the morning," claimed Lurog, slapping the archer on the back as she sat down next to him. She winced at his strength but couldn't help grinning even wider.

"Remind me to stick to whores," grunted Uriel, draining his tankard and slamming it down on the stained wood of the table. "They don't fight back." On the table in front of him was a sheathed Daedric broadsword; he'd been into an Oblivion Gate recently – alongside Lurog, Dralasa, several guardsmen and Gorgoth's Orcs - and had imitated Ilend in bringing back a Dremora's weapon as a prize.

"Well, that depends on what you want," replied the Dunmer, wiggling her eyebrows. Her fine blue silk dress was disordered in places; she'd either been through Oblivion again or had already bedded at least one man tonight. Aerin was willing to bet on the latter.

"I want something that gets me blood boiling," growled the grizzled sellsword, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You, for example." Ignoring the Dark Elf's giggling, he turned and fixed the Bosmer with his steely grey gaze. "Speaking of which, I saw your Imperial walk out earlier with a guardsman. You pissed him off or something?"

Aerin folded her arms atop the table and shook her head. "Burd wanted him for something. No idea what." Her hair was long enough for some to settle on the table around her arms; more was cascading down to her mid-back. Tying most of it back into her usual ponytail was pointless out of combat, and seeing Dralasa's perfect flame-red curls had provoked a rare stab of envy. "At least we'll get ta tear each other's clothes off all over again..." A wicked grin spread over her face.

"You sound almost as horny as me," observed Dralasa, her crimson eyes sparkling with humour. She abruptly reached over and sniffed the Wood Elf, running a hand lightly through her hair. "Yes, I still smell him on you," she sighed, retreating. "Lucky you. Last night, I had a Redguard who was too thin, a Nord who was too heavy, and _him_." Her grey finger poked Uriel in the chest. The mercenary grunted.

"Might I remind you, Dral, that it's _you_ who chooses who to bed," rumbled Lurog. "And you're quite exclusive."

The Dunmer rolled her eyes and launched into yet another explanation of how she played 'her game'. Aerin smiled and closed her eyes, resting her chin on her folded arms. The euphoria of the sex was fading, and the warmth of the fire seemed to embrace her as fatigue crept up. She dozed for a while, the comforting rumble of Lurog's deep voice lulling her to sleep. When Dralasa's gentle hand on her shoulder woke her, she had no idea how much time had past. "Ilend's back," warned the Dark Elf.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, the Bosmer yawned and rose unsteadily. Most of the tables were now empty, and some of the serving girls were already scrubbing the floor, but she only had eyes for her lover. He looked tired as he closed the door behind him, shutting out the cutting wind, but he brightened after catching sight of her. Moving over to their table, he took her in his arms once again and kissed her deeply. She gave a small moan of pleasure and relaxed against him, pressing her body against his. Uriel was probably sniggering, but she didn't care about what some grey-haired old mercenary thought. She didn't care what _anyone_ thought.

Eventually, however, he drew back and put her back down. "The Nine know I needed that," he sighed, running a finger over her jawline before grinning. "You like you've just got out of bed but want to go back to it."

"Ya got that right, guardsman," she said, smirking as he sat down in her chair, well aware of her loose hair and slightly dishevelled appearance. He seemed to like her like that, however. She slid into his lap and curled up, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head against his chest, sighing contentedly. "So, what did Burd want?"

"You as his paramour for the night, I'll wager," snorted Uriel, trimming his fingernails with his dagger.

Dralasa rolled his eyes. "He's _married_, Uriel. Besides, I already offered." The mercenary almost choked on his ale. "He's unlikely to want her if he's already turned _me_ down." She shot a hasty glance in the Bosmer's direction. "No offence meant."

"None taken," murmured Aerin. "Ilend? What did he _actually_ want?"

"A bloody nightmare," grunted the Imperial. His voice made his chest vibrate slightly; a pleasant feeling, though his words were not so pleasant. "I used to be a Watch Sergeant, and now I've got a lot of Gate experience, so..." He sighed. "Burd wants me and a few other veterans to start teaching unbloodied soldiers what to deal with. I can think of a lot of things I'd rather do with my time, to be honest..."

The Bosmer moved her head to look up him with concern. "But... most of your experience is pre-Sutch." It was generally agreed that the tactics of the Daedra had drastically changed since the start of the war, the turning point being the Battle of Fort Sutch, in which the larger part of three Imperial centuries had been destroyed. While Ilend had more experience of Oblivion than most people in Bruma, he hadn't closed an Oblivion Gate for a relatively long time. "You fought through Kvatch and Skingrad, true, but...why you? Others have nearly as much experience."

"Because you know how it can be, love. I have the most free time so they lump it on me." He shook his head. "That Blade was bringing Steffan's recommendation of me. Figures... they make use of every asset they can." He removed his gauntlets and threw them on the table. "At least I can see where they're coming from. Most of the guardsman here have never seen a Dremora before, let alone Oblivion. It's best they get some training."

"And you can always be trusted to do your duty," noted Lurog, approval evident in his voice.

"You could say that," muttered Ilend grudgingly as he rested a hand on Aerin's stomach. "I'll do it, but I made it clear that I'd rather they picked someone else. Burd insisted, though."

"Well, at least you're a good teacher," claimed the Wood Elf, wriggling slightly and craning her neck to look up into his eyes. "I can vouch for that."

"Teaching a lone, highly attractive Bosmer is quite different to teaching a large squad of well-trained guardsmen," grunted the Imperial. "But I'll do what I can, starting the day after tomorrow." He poked her lightly on the nose. "_You_ still get to laze around all day in the warm, you lucky girl," he told her.

"Look on the bright side," she told him, smirking impishly. "At least ya can come back to a nice warm bed." She ignored Lurog's chuckling. Her lover grinned back at her, but his response was cut short by the inn's door slamming open.

"This is the fourth inn I've tried," announced the newcomer as he roughly pushed the door closed behind him. He was a Redguard, tall and broad-shouldered, his piercing blue eyes combining with his size to give him an intimidating aura. A dull green cloak failed to hide an exquisite suit of bronze plate armour forged to perfectly fit his muscular body, and the hilt of a large greatsword was visible over his left shoulder, within easy reach. Slanting across his chest was a powerful yew longbow nearly as tall as he was. Snowflakes were melting in his shoulder-length black dreadlocks, and the dampness of his cloak suggested that he'd been travelling. "I sincerely hope you have a room free," he continued, marching up to the innkeep. "And preferably hot food and a nice drink. I've made it here from Chorrol in just over a day."

The innkeep, a portly, balding Nord named Hjoldir, looked the Redguard up and down critically. "Might be that I have a room for you, and I suppose a few scraps can be heated if you've got the coin," he grunted through crooked teeth. His fighting days were long over, but Hjoldir was never a man to be overawed easily, and the cudgel at his hip had dealt with many a rowdy customer. "Given that rooms are at a premium, it'll be twenty drakes a night. Another five for the scraps. And beer's expensive as well."

Raising an eyebrow, the Redguard swept his cloak back from his torso, fully revealing the magnificence of his armour. It was burnished to such an extent that the flickering torches were reflected in the shining metal, and the full-faced spiked helm hanging from his belt looked fearsome. On another man, it might seem ostentatious and boorish, but Aerin could tell that not only did the man know how to use it, but had done so in the past; several barely-visible scars decorated the breastplate and greaves. "I could sleep in the Guildhall for free," the Redguard was saying.

Hjoldir smirked. "Most likely you've already been there. Most likely that you've discovered it's full, and that's why you're traipsing around Bruma looking for a bed." He shrugged. "Not that I care. My prices are my prices. Take em or leave em, but you're unlikely to find another bed in the city, unless you want to sleep in the Chapel. But it's cold and hard in there... not attractive for a sun-lover."

The Guildsman's jaw clenched, and for a moment his fists trembled. Aerin winced before sliding off Ilend's lap at his urging to allow him to stand, ready to step in at the first signs of violence. To their surprise, however, the Redguard grunted, the anger seeming to largely drain out of him. "I'll pay," he muttered.

Nodding, the Nord held out a meaty palm. "I'll take the first night's gold now and the rest when you leave."

Grudgingly, the warrior took his belt bag and counted out twenty-five drakes. "I hope the bed doesn't have any lice," he grumbled as Hjoldir made the coins disappear into one of his many pockets.

"You pay for what you get," the innkeep told him as he wandered off towards the kitchens, bellowing for whatever unfortunate cook was on duty.

As the Redguard glared at the Nord's retreating back, Aerin watched Ilend walk casually up to him. "You're in the Guild?" he asked.

"Defender Tarad of the Chorrol Branch," responded the Guildsman, turning to take in the Imperial's battered armour and Daedric longsword with an appraising glance. "What's it to you?"

"Protector Ilend Vonius of the Skingrad Branch," replied Ilend, nodding in greeting. "I heard that you came from Chorrol recently. Any news worth hearing?"

Tarad's hard stare had softened slightly. "Plenty, if you can spare enough to buy me a few drinks." A smirk plucked at the corner of the Redguard's mouth. "A man could use a good beer after all that riding."

"Now you're speaking my language." Ilend motioned for him to follow them back to their table, where Aerin hastily pulled up another two chairs, positioning herself next to her lover when he threw himself back down in his old seat. Tarad took his place on her other side, waiting for the creaking of the tortured chair to subside before nodding in greeting to the other occupants of the table. His eyes lingered on both women when Ilend introduced all of them, which was understandable. Once the Imperial informed him in a firm tone that she was his lover, however, his roving eyes snapped to her face and he gave her a courteous smile.

Up close, she could observe him in more detail; his square-jawed face was hard and uncompromising, much like his armour. What surprised her, however, was his youth; his eyes were those of an eagle and he had clearly seen fighting, but he was her age, if that. That did not necessarily mean much, however; Redguards were often raised to be warriors from the time they could walk, and he might well have been in the Guild since the age of sixteen or even younger. He certainly had an air of experience about him, and the way he weighed up Uriel and Lurog as though assessing their strength spoke of wisdom beyond his years.

"So, what happened in Chorrol that made you ride here so fast?" asked Ilend, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table.

"Let's just say that the new Guildmaster has a certain way of doing things," responded Tarad, a wry smirk twisting his mouth as he removed his gauntlets and tossed them on the table. "But drink first. Talk once my throat is wet." He called for a beer.

It was no surprise to Aerin that there was a new Guildmaster; from what she'd heard of Vilena Donton, the woman had been completely incompetent. Ilend was clearly intrigued, but patiently waited while the Redguard downed half a tankard of strong black beer with large gulps, wiping away a trickle that ran down his chin. Dralasa moved away, presumably to find some 'sport', and while Uriel looked wistfully after her, he also seemed interested in what the Guildsman might have to say.

Eventually, Tarad slammed his mug down and looked at each one of them in turn. "Where do I start?" he asked.

"Who is our new Guildmaster?" inquired Ilend.

"An Orc. Gorgoth gro-Kharz is his name. You've most likely heard of him. He's the Hero of Kvatch."

Lurog had been idly tracing patterns on the table with a dagger, but at the Redguard's words he put it down and fixed him with his amber gaze. "What?" His flat, sharp, disbelieving tone was entirely expected; Aerin herself wasn't sure if she'd heard correctly. Gorgoth, leader of the Fighters Guild? He'd only been in it for a matter of months, and she'd always got the idea that he had business back in Orsinium to finish. Beside her, Ilend closed his mouth after it had fallen open in shock.

"I believe you heard me the first time, Lurog," said Tarad, arching an eyebrow slightly. "Gorgoth put himself forward rather forcefully, it has to be said, but... he made a good argument. The entire Guild will back him, I'm sure. Champion Oreyn certainly thinks so."

"I wasn't expecting that," muttered Ilend, scratching his chin.

"Neither was I," said Aerin, shrugging. "Still... he'll be a good leader. I just know it." She certainly couldn't think of anyone stronger or harder, and those were good qualities of leadership as far as she knew.

"He's a good fighter in any case," grunted the Redguard, wincing. "On the morning I left, I challenged him to a mock duel in the yard to get his measure." He shook his head. "I've never fought someone so strong or so skilled. And he's fast for his size. I'd have been riding all the way here in agony if he hadn't healed me."

Uriel chuckled dryly. "At what point did that seem like a good idea?"

The Defender shot the Imperial a warning glance. "Until I faced him, I was considered the second-best warrior in the Guild," he claimed. "I beat Oreyn two times out of five, at least."

"A prodigy, eh?" Lurog grunted and shook his head. "Bloody yourself in a few battles and I'll respect you more, boy."

Before an annoyed Tarad could reply, Ilend spoke up again. "What about the old Guildmaster?" he asked, frowning.

"Vilena Donton hanged herself after resigning and appointing her successor." The Redguard shrugged. "It was a mercy, I suppose. Losing her two sons, losing respect, her sense, everything... give me a good clean death in battle any day."

"Not that you've ever seen a battle," remarked Lurog, drumming his gauntleted fingers on the table. "Many deaths in battle are honourable, yes, but hardly clean." He leaned forward, smiling grimly. "I've seen scores of men in their last moments, all begging me for the mercy of my dagger. They'd fought well, acquitted themselves honourably, but the victors hadn't thought to finish them off after their defeat. There was a battle going on, after all. It gets chaotic. And what is one scream for mercy among hundreds of identical screams?" The Orc shook his head. "You want a clean death in battle, boy, you'd better hope it's someone who's either good enough to kill you outright, or someone who'll take the time to finish you off."

Tarad glared across the table at the warrior. "And what one are you?" he growled.

"Both." The Orc's eyes were frozen chips of yellow ice, somewhat reminiscent of Gorgoth's. Though Gorgoth's eyes looked like that most of the time. "How old are you, boy?"

"Nineteen," he spat. "And I didn't come over here to be questioned by-"

"Your betters?" The warrior barked a bitter laugh. "I was killing men bigger than you before you picked up real steel, boy. How many true fights have you been in, hmm? How many proper warriors have you killed?" He sighed. "It doesn't matter, anyhow. You're in Bruma. You'll find a challenge in battle soon enough." Lurog stood, putting on his helmet and picking up his scarred shield from where it had rested against the table. Next to Tarad's fine bronze plate, his dull chainmail looked like an armourer's afterthought, but it bore several scars where it had saved his life in the past. "I've fought through two Gates in two days. I need some rest." He strode off, long mace swinging from his belt.

The Redguard stared at his retreating back. "How old is he?"

"Half my age, I'll wager," grunted Uriel, rising from his chair. "Though admittedly I stopped counting after my fiftieth birthday. I don't like getting old." He looked old, certainly; most of his hair was gone and what little remained was grey and thin. Despite his gaunt appearance and rusted chainmail, however, Aerin had watched him spar with Ilend, and he had pushed her lover hard before inevitably falling to the energy and strength of the younger man. "Speaking of age, my eyes grow tired. I hope my room is warm." He picked up his newly-acquired broadsword and slotted it through his belt before departing.

Aerin herself would have preferred to follow his example and take Ilend back to bed, but now that they were finally alone with Tarad, the Protector returned to his questioning. "What's Gorgoth doing, now he's Guildmaster?" he asked.

The Redguard shook himself, turning his gaze back to the Imperial, his gaze refocusing. "He's not wasting any time, that's for certain," he snorted. "He sent me to Cloud Ruler Temple to deliver a message. I'd be there now if the guardsmen hadn't advised me to spend the night here. Heavy snowfall is predicted, or so they say." He grimaced. "I'm not made for winter. But after I've delivered that note, I'm to take command of the Guildsmen here until the Guildmaster himself arrives."

"How many men is he bringing with him?"

Tarad smirked. "From the sound of it, he meant to bring the entire Guild, save a few to stay at each Guildhall to keep it running and prevent thievery."

Aerin found herself nodding. "Good for him," she remarked. "And for us. The more men between me and the Daedra in battle, the better. It's hard ta shoot when you've got a daedroth trying to eat ya."

"You're an archer, I take it?" The Defender frowned. "I cant see you making a shot powerful enough to penetrate Daedric plate. Even my longbow has trouble at close range."

"Ya haven't met Trueshot yet," the Bosmer told him, grinning impishly.

Tarad frowned doubtfully, but a distraction arrived in the form of his meat. "If that's all you want to ask me, I'd rather be left in peace for now," he told them as he stabbed a dry sausage with his dagger. "I've got an early morning ride ahead of me, then an argument for a place to lay my head in the Guildhall."

Ilend nodded in sympathy and stood, motioning to Aerin. "Come on. Right now, I'm in the mood to lay you on your back and make you beg for mercy."

She giggled and grabbed his hand, pulling him after her as she made for the stairs. "You'll have ta try _very_ hard, guardsman."

* * *

Knight Brother Roliand of the Blades, like most of his comrades, was completely mundane. He also seemed to be everything a stereotypical mage was not; big, strong and hearty. His dai-katana was one of the biggest in the Blades, and his suit of steel plate among the heaviest. His shaggy blonde hair fell to his shoulders, and a beard covered most of his lower face. This, combined with the bearskin cloak he favoured when travelling, did much to lend him a ferocious, untamed appearance. That was probably why Grandmaster Steffan had sent him to the Arcane University to ask for their aid.

His intimidating appearance did not seem to be opening any doors, however; twenty minutes after first entering the massive public lobby, he was still there with his message undelivered. Master-Wizard Polus, who appeared to be a sort of secretary for the Arch-Mage, had firmly told him that he had to wait if he wanted to see her. As Steffan had commanded Roliand to put the question to her directly, it would seem that he had no choice but to wait.

The lobby was high-ceilinged with many passages leading from it, but the Nord suspected that it was even bigger than it had seemed from the outside; magic had a habit of twisting things. After the bench had threatened to splinter under his weight, he had taken to pacing, and having counted out the length from wall to wall, it certainly seemed wider than it had appeared when he'd first approached it. Several battlemages were standing guard, and a dozen mages were conversing quietly on the benches, but all the Blade was interested in was the glowing teleportation pad near the back of the lobby and the man sitting behind the desk next to it.

As he paced, Roliand found himself wondering about the new change in leadership of the Guild. His message was addressed to Hannibal Traven, but Traven was dead. His successor had taken ten battlemages with her to root out and kill Mannimarco, the King of Worms. There were several rumours flying around, but they all agreed on one thing; the new Arch-Mage – an Altmer named Merissa – had returned victorious. Of the ten battlemages, only two had returned with her. One had wasted away and died within hours, and the other refused to speak about the experience. Merissa herself was mostly keeping herself to her chambers, rarely venturing out and receiving few visitors. Polus had informed her of Roliand's mission, but no more than that.

"Come on, mage," growled the Nord, walking up to the Imperial's desk once again. "She can't mope around in her tower all day. There's a war going on. Hadn't you noticed?"

"My eyes work fine, Blade," responded the Master-Wizard, his voice sharp. A strand of his brown hair – much of it greying – fell over his brown eyes, and he brushed it away absently. "The Arch-Mage needs time to recover. Mannimarco is undoubtedly the most powerful enemy we will have faced recently, unless Dagon himself enters Tamriel." He stood, the short, slight Imperial dwarfed by the bulky Nord on the other side of his desk. "I have informed the Arch-Mage of your presence. Maybe you'd like to leave your message with me instead?"

"I follow my orders, mage."

"As do I. Now, please, I have vastly important work to be doing." Polus sat again, looking over the papers on his neatly ordered desk, completely ignoring the Knight Brother.

Roliand ground his teeth, resisting the temptation to slam his dagger down into the wood of the desk. He was capable of killing the Imperial with his bare hands, but that wouldn't count for much if he was being tossed out of the doors with telekinesis. "The survival of Tamriel is at stake," he insisted. "If Bruma falls – which is likely if we don't have enough support when the Great Gate opens – then Cloud Ruler Temple will fall, Martin will die, and you'll all be doomed."

The Master-Wizard looked up at him as though regarding a particularly troublesome child. "The Arch-Mage left orders not to be disturbed."

"Damn you, parrot!" roared Roliand, his mighty voice drawing every eye in the lobby. "What part of _important_ do you not understand? The decisive battle could happen any day, and you sit here at your desk and tell me I can't see the only person who can help me here?"

"If the Blades wanted help they might have sent someone marginally more civilised than a barbarian," retorted Polus, his voice icy as he rose once again from his chair. "Personally, I want to help you. But the Arch-Mage has commanded-"

He was cut off by a flash from the teleportation pad. Roliand turned to regard the Altmer stepping from the glowing portal. She looked largely unchanged from when he'd last seen her in that plane of Oblivion; her hazel eyes still seemed oddly unfocused, and her honey-coloured hair was still arranged in multiple thin braids that spilled from the hood of her deep blue robe. However, her smooth, pretty face was drawn slightly, as though she had experienced much pain recently and hadn't fully recovered. When the Knight Brother walked up to her, Merissa completely ignored him and walked unsteadily over to Polus, the embroidered hem of her robe brushing the floor.

"I am missing a name," she told her Master-Wizard. The High Elf's voice was cool and distant; fitting, as Roliand had never met someone so resolutely distracted. She had even managed to talk to herself for most of the time they'd spent in Oblivion.

"The name of who, Arch-Mage?" asked the Imperial, frowning.

"You know who!" The Altmer's voice was now a whip, cracking through the air, loud and sharp. "The ten who went with me! I must have their names; I am missing one. Ertius, Saenus, Thronor, Pritia, Iniel, Tee-Lan, Relam, Graz, Arnand... only nine that I can remember. Tell me the last." She leaned forward and gripped his wrist. "I _must_ remember them all. I _must_!" As quickly as it came, the feverish gleam left her eyes, and she sighed and dropped the Imperial's arm. She turned and walked quickly back towards the portal.

Roliand moved to block her path. He did not mean to delay any longer. "Arch-Mage Merissa. I have a message from Grandmaster Steffan of the-"

"I remember you," muttered the High Elf, cutting him off. "You were in Oblivion. You fought well. A brave man." She plucked the letter from his hand. "Come into my chambers. It has been too long since I was in the company of someone not fussing over my health." When the Nord hesitated - wanting nothing to do with whatever might be happening up in the Arch-Mage's private quarters - she pushed him onto the teleportation pad and climbed on after him, activating it.

The odd squeezing sensation of the spell lasted for less than a second before the Knight Brother found himself standing in Merissa's chambers. She immediately moved away from him, giving him time to take in his surroundings, a habit he'd developed long before joining the Blades eight years ago. It was a single spacious room, with a high ceiling and no windows. Light was provided by multiple glowing crystals and purple flames that seemed to be burning nothing at all. A gnarled old moss-covered tree stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by varying plants in a circle of dark soil. The outer edges of the room were occupied by benches and desks weighed down by scattered papers, alchemy equipment, potions, books... everything a mage might need.

"Take a seat," commanded Merissa absently, waving a hand in the direction of a stool as she took a seat behind one of the desks, breaking the seal of the message. "Have a drink, if you want."

Roliand took a look around at the dozens of vials, mugs, cups and cauldrons scattered around the cluttered chamber. Several smells pricked his nose at once, none of them pleasant. "I'm not thirsty," he said awkwardly. The Arch-Mage made no reply, instead mumbling to herself in an unrecognisable language as she read Steffan's message. He gingerly sat down on one of the stools, wincing as it creaked under his weight. The humid heat of the room – it seemed to be magical warmth – made him uncomfortable under his layers of fur and steel, but he resisted the urge to loosen anything.

"I've only just finished a war of my own," noted the Altmer, not taking her eyes from the letter. "Hurt a lot. We lost many good men. And women. And elves. And beasts." She looked up to meet Roliand's eyes.

"You've seen the Deadlands," he grunted. "Do you want Tamriel to look like that?"

"It would be an interesting change of scenery. I've been bored by the landscape ever since I left Summerset Isle fifty-four years ago. Or was it fifty-two?" She gave a sharp shake of her head. "But I suppose endless death and destruction is less desirable than having duty thrust upon me. Very well. I will send battlemages. I will come myself when I am able."

"_Lots_ of battlemages," insisted Roliand, too untrusting of mages in general to feel too much relief yet. "And you look well enough to me."

She arched a delicate eyebrow. "Tell me, Blade. Have you ever fought the King of Worms before? Not a pleasant experience, I assure you."

"You won."

"If you say so." The High Elf got up and started pacing, robes swishing. "I have over a hundred battlemages here at the University. Or maybe it is eighty. Or seventy. The necromancers cost us. No matter. I will send thirty north now and take another twenty with me when I come myself. Is that sufficient, Blade?"

"It is." Roliand stood and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Now he could finally get back to the snows of Cloud Ruler Temple where he belonged. It was too warm and peaceful in the south or his liking, even in winter with war raging in every part of Tamriel. He wanted to feel the snow crunching beneath his boots and for his blade to cut deep into the flesh of a Daedra. It would be good to get back. "Do you have any message you want to-"

"No." She turned and pointed to the teleportation pad. "Go and tell your Grandmaster he will get his aid. Maybe Dagon will even wait long enough for us to arrive."

* * *

**A/N: So that's the Guilds cleared up. And I'll admit that parts of this chapter seemed weak and designed purely as filler, but... that's the nature of something this big and sprawling sometimes, no matter how much I try to avoid it. Anyhow, you might well be thinking that the Battle of Bruma is going to be within two chapters... well, there's a bit more to come yet. Something unique (as far as I can tell). Hopefully I won't take forever to write it. Until next time... and don't forget to leave a review. You're helping me if you leave one.**


	44. Planning

**A/N: It's been a long time... four and a half weeks, in fact, since my last update. I could claim excuses (getting shafted into a work placement that kills my free time, my Metro alternator seizing at Silverstone, etc.), but a four-and-a-half week wait is inexcusable in my book. I can only apologise and try not to let it happen again. Still, thanks to those who reviewed:**

**Orion the Awesome: The Battle of Bruma won't be Chapter 45, as you'll see in this chapter, but it will be happening soon, for sure. And as for that list... well, it depends who you define as 'important'. And besides, not many main characters have died yet anyway...**

**Underpaid Critic: Chapter 42 review: Ah, non-fiction... that'll explain it, as I tend not to favour short, simple sentences in most cases. Anyhow, yes, I have something planned for Paradise... something I hope will be interesting. I think it's quite obvious that Kathutet might get involved somehow...**

**Chapter 43 review: Those conjunctions were actually unintentional... but it seems to have worked out fine, at least. And as for shocking/revealing... well, read on. ;)**

**Random Reader: Indeed, magic in vanilla Oblivion doesn't translate well into the world of written fiction. 'Mighty Magick' was certainly a damn good mod... and who knows what Gorgoth will do? He knows himself, but I doubt anyone else does, except me. As for Agronak, he's half-Imperial (as explained by Gorgoth many chapters ago); half-vampires are biologically impossible, at least in the TES universe, by my application of simple logic; if vampires are dead, then it should be impossible for them to procreate. He's probably SHORTER-lived, if anything, due to his Imperial blood, but he's still a damn good fighter and relatively young... but Mazoga doesn't think like that.**

**Rokibfd: Aye, it seems that every chapter might turn out fillerish until the Battle of Bruma unless I can sort things out... still, here's hoping I can get it right. and yes, Gorgoth's hardly likely to let his Guild slack in this time of crisis. The Archmage is around eighty-ninety, by my estimations, so she's probably got many centuries ahead of her, and highly unlikely to commit suicide... her apparent worry over the battlemages who fought and died for her is merely due to her extreme eccentricy (though Mannimarco might have pushed her over the edge and made her half-mad). Anyhow, yes, in the BaS universe I'll agree with Bethesda in that great magical power boosts lifespans... and yes, elves will be longer-lived, though I've applied my own translation to that. Altmer are longest-lived due to their selective breeding, Dunmer and Bosmer come next (not sure exactly; Barenziah's biography reveals that she could live for many centuries, but she's high-born nobility). Orcs are the shortest-lived elven race in my book due to their 'corruption', but they'll still live for nearly two centuries; Gorgoth for much longer, if he doesn't fall in battle, due to his magical power. And finally, since corprus is effectively a ticket to immortality (lucky Nerevarine), it wouldn't surprise me if corprus experiments had had an impact on Lord Fyr's lifespan.**

**As for those firm breasts, I agree and removed the 'firm'... changed that dagger as well, though sometimes I think I'm so removed from ingameisms that when I do actually use them they might not be associated with the game. Ah, well. And as for the Arch-mage... her weird speech is a result of her eccentricies, and no one truly knows what she's thinking about those who died, least of all the simple Nord sent to bring her a message. She might be expanded on in future, but for now she'll be a very confusing character... Anyhow, thanks for that review, though it appears that my reply has taken up most of the A/N. Again. XD**

**John the Awesome: Yes, I could make fights more bloody. Will I? Only if it helps the narrative. Gore for the sake of gore isn't one of my specialities. I do have a Youtube channel, but I won't reveal the name publicly (there IS a 'DualKatanas' on Youtube, but that's not me. They just stole my name. Bastards.) My favourite pizza topping is extra cheese, but the rest of those questions are highly irrelevant and will be ignored (though I'm tempted to explain why the sky is blue).**

**Keep the reivews coming, people, and I'll promise that I'll do my best to be quicker next time. Now, on with this long-awaited chapter:**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-four: Planning**

It had been a long time since the Great Hall of Cloud Ruler Temple had ever hosted what might be called a council of war; no battles had been fought near the ancient stronghold of the Blades for many years. But now that a decisive battle was drawing close, Grandmaster Steffan had summoned the commanders of the various forces sent by the Cyrodilic cities to augment the Bruma City Guard. Martin was sitting in the high seat reserved for the Emperor at the head of the long table, his arms folded on the dark wood. In his tattered blue robe, he felt he looked almost out of place amongst the chainmail and plate armour, but he knew he belonged here. He hadn't asked for this destiny – it had been thrust upon him – but he wasn't about to deny who he was. An Emperor had to lead, and lead well.

He observed each of the commanders in turn. Two of the cities had sent their foremost captains – Ulrich Leland of Cheydinhal and Dion of Skingrad – but each had submitted their command to Captain Burd for now. Other cities had sent seconds-in-command or capable subordinates, each well able to keep his or her men under control. Every one of them had lost soldiers under their command to the hordes of Oblivion, but Bruma itself had suffered no harm yet. The Imperial forces were paying for time in blood. It could not continue for long, and nor would it; Countess Carvain had grudgingly given her consent to allow a Great Gate to open near her city in order to gain a Great Sigil Stone.

So far, the Imperial forces had closed any Gates before a Great Gate could be formed; the Daedra apparently needed to open three normal Gates before a Siege Crawler could be unleashed. But while the captains all agreed on what had to be done, few agreed on how it _should_ be done. All of them had combat experience, but none had led men in battles much bigger than skirmishes with large groups of bandits. Captain Leland had been a centurion in the field Legions before transferring to the Cheydinhal City Guard, but Steffan had whispered in Martin's ear that most of the captains would never consent to submit to his command. It was rumoured that Leland was only in Bruma so that Count Indarys could put off dealing with his blatant corruption until after the war was over.

Leaning back from the vigorous conversation, he turned his head to regard Captain Renault, standing just behind his chair. "Any word of Gorgoth?"

"Plenty. But he isn't here yet despite the insistence of our message." The Breton's mouth was set in a thin hard line under her helmet. She had taken the duty of being his personal bodyguard today, and there were at least twenty off-duty Blades in the Great Hall, but with the threat of invasion, he would never be truly safe.

"I thought he knew his priorities better," put in Steffan, sitting at Martin's right hand. "We can't wait any longer, sire. Decisions have to be made."

"But is anyone here capable of drawing up a good battle plan?" Martin shook his head. "I don't want our forces to be slaughtered because of bad leadership. I've read every military manual in the temple-"

"With respect, sire, reading a few books does not make you a general." Steffan sighed. "Even Uriel V had to learn through experience, though he learnt very quickly."

"Enough." The heir's rising voice cut through the arguments of the captains as he rose from his seat. "Petty arguments are of no use to anyone. How many men do we have in total?"

"Four thousand trained soldiers, sire, give or take a few dozen," responded Burd, bowing his head. "Most are garrison troops from the cities, but there are at least a thousand sellswords among them of varying skill. We also have several battlemages, but..." he shook his head. "The Mages Guild hasn't moved."

"Roliand isn't back yet," Steffan told him. "Maybe he'll come back with a company of battlemages."

"Or maybe he'll-" Burd was cut off by the double doors swinging open. Gorgoth gro-Kharz marched in, bringing with him wind and snow until the doors slowly swung shut behind him. Despite his dirty, battered plate armour and a travel-stained fur cloak, he looked more of a warrior than any man at the table. His gaze swept the captains, taking in the situation before wordlessly making his way over.

"Took you long enough," remarked Renault as he eased himself down into a seat at the far end of the table. "What kept you?"

"Consolidating my rule. I would rather bring an intact Fighters Guild to the battle." The warrior-shaman took off his gauntlets before folding his arms.

"How many men have you got with you?" asked Steffan.

"Seventy Guildsmen from the Chorrol Guild, along with the twenty Guildsmen who were already in Bruma. If the other branches respond to my commands, you could have as many as four hundred."

Martin nodded. Four hundred trained fighters wouldn't go unappreciated, and now that Gorgoth was back the battle plans might actually get somewhere. "You know what we need?"

"A Great Sigil Stone. Logically, you would need a Great Gate for that." The Orc's hand rose to tap his canine. "From what I learnt from Ilend Vonius, a Great Gate can unleash hundreds of Daedra within seconds, and Dagon has learnt how to make better use of them." He gazed up and down the table. "There is going to be a battle. A big one. And we'll eventually be outnumbered no matter how many soldiers we have."

"Countess Carvain has agreed to let a Great Gate open near her city," Martin told him. "But we have no detailed plan of action. And no overall commander."

"Two essential things in any war." The warrior-shaman leaned back in his seat and looked Martin in the eyes. "I cannot command. I will be entering the Great Gate as soon as it opens. I cannot give orders from Oblivion."

"You can help us plan the battle," put in Steffan. "You have experience-"

"Experience at what, Grandmaster?" Gorgoth shook his head. "For much of the war, my father did all the planning with his experienced commanders. I was younger then. I just did as I was ordered. Apart from one battle..." A twitch at one corner of his mouth indicated what passed as a smile for the stoic Orc. "It didn't need much planning, however. My three thousand horsemen caught a Breton column of several thousand footmen on the march. Do you need plans for slaughter and butchery?"

"Even so, you're the most experienced battle commander here-"

"And I can get you someone better."

"Who?" Captain Dion was looking at the warrior-shaman with a curious expression on his face. "The Legion's field generals are beyond our reach. None of the Counts of Cyrodiil have battle experience. Who else is there?"

"My first thought would be for my father. Whatever else he is, he is one of the best generals Orsinium has ever had. But he would probably never leave our kingdom anyway. No, my recommendation is in the Imperial City. General Adamus Phillida."

Martin raised an eyebrow. He'd heard of Phillida – Jauffre had told him that he was a good general who had served in more wars than he could count – but he was old now, and soon to retire. "He didn't respond when we sent a message."

"The message you sent to Ocato. The High Chancellor forbade him to send any field legions to help Bruma. You didn't approach the General himself."

"How do you know he'll come?" asked Steffan. "He's been in the Imperial City for the last two years. He'll be retiring soon. Why would he come and help us?"

"His duty." Gorgoth stood, picking up his gauntlets and pulling them on. "Send a messenger directly to him. Mention me. He will come. I'm sure of it."

"We can't wait much longer, Orc," growled Captain Leland, glaring up at the warrior-shaman. "It's rare that a day goes by without a Gate opening. We lose men every day."

"And more men arrive to replace them. Strike only when you have every possible advantage. You can wait." The Orc paused. "Besides, you will have to. I am leaving you for a time."

Martin surged to his feet, his sharp voice cutting through the clamour of protests. "Gorgoth, you will stay here, in the Temple or in Bruma. That is an order. We can't lose you at this point."

Those cold amber eyes met the heir's gaze. "I will explain later. I know you will understand." Before the ex-priest could utter another word, the warrior-shaman was striding off in the direction of his quarters.

The Imperial watched him go. "Prepare a messenger," he told Steffan. "I'll dictate the message to Phillida myself."

"As you wish, sire. What about Gorgoth?"

"I'll talk to him later." Martin slowly sat, gazing at his interlocking fingers. No matter how much he thought he knew the Orc, he always managed to confuse him. What could possibly have managed to convince him that his place was away from where the climatic battle would be fought? The ex-priest shook his head. Gorgoth would need a good reason for leaving. A very good reason.

* * *

The warrior-shaman walked quickly and purposefully towards his chambers in the royal wing, letting no Blade distract him. He needed time to think; he would have to make sure Martin would let him go. He'd been planning what he had to do ever since he'd brought back a supply of Welkynd Stones from Miscarcand. Only when Captain Varsis stepped out in front of him was he forced to pay attention to what the Imperial was saying. "There's a man waiting for you in your quarters. Says he knows you."

"What did he look like?"

"A Breton, I think. Dark clothing, but nothing sinister. Claymore on his back. Looked like he knew how to use it."

"Why did you let him into the Temple?"

"He said he had vital information for you. I put four guards on your door, so there's no danger of his escaping."

"Very well." Captain Varsis nodded and left him. The warrior-shaman entered the Royal Wing, thinking over whom it might be. All the comrades he'd picked up in his travels around Cyrodiil were in Bruma; he'd seen most of them during his ride through the city, and besides, Glenroy would have recognised them. This might well be someone from his past, and he'd rather not let his past become common knowledge in the Temple.

Nodding to the four guards around his door, he commanded them not to let anyone enter before walking into his chambers and closing the door behind him, weaving a shield of Silence around the room to keep them private.

The Breton slowly rising from his chair was not someone the warrior-shaman recognised. He was slight of build, tall and slender, making the large claymore on his back look slightly incongruous. His clothes were fine black velvet, making his pale skin seem even paler. Lush brown hair pulled back into a ponytail gave an unobstructed view of a handsome face, and brilliant blue eyes stared at him without fear. When he spoke, the cultured tones of High Rock betrayed his birthplace. "Greetings, Gorgoth. It is good to meet you at last."

Narrowing his eyes, the Orc strode closer. "I do not recognise you. Maybe you had better remove that Illusion." He was powerful in most schools of magic, but Illusion was clearly his strong point; some of the shamans had told him that he might well be the most powerful Illusionist in Tamriel. That made it easy for him to sense the powerful disguise that this Breton was wearing. "It got you past the guards, but now I would prefer to look upon your true face."

A small smile plucked at the Breton's lips. "As you wish." The handsome face melted away, replaced by a grim visage many might call hideous. Pale skin was now even paler, as white as the snow outside and stretched taut over sharp cheekbones and a gaunt face. Deep wrinkles now lined the man's face, and those brilliant blue eyes were now a deep crimson. Gorgoth made no reaction except to glance towards the window. The late morning sun was thankfully hidden behind a cloud.

"I know of only one vampire that might have business with me," he observed, walking towards his table, casting an analytical eye over the creature. That slender figure took on a new meaning, but the claymore on his back no longer looked so ridiculous; the vampire would be more than strong enough to wield an Orcish warhammer in one hand, though his size meant that a good balance would be impossible to find. "Unless I am mistaken... what do you want with me, Valtieri?"

Vicente Valtieri's smile grew slightly wider, his fangs now fully visible. "The Black Hand say that they have accepted your... proposition."

"You are no mere messenger. And if that was all, they would have sent word to me months ago. Why are you really here?"

The vampire gestured towards an armchair. "May I?" Gorgoth nodded, taking the seat opposite from the Dark Brother. "You are correct. I am not here just to deliver a message." He leaned back in his chair, resting one booted foot on the opposite knee. "The war affects us all. If Dagon succeeds, he will not need the Dark Brotherhood. We will be extinguished like everyone else. I am here to fight by your side."

"Why? You could have stayed anonymously in Bruma until the climax. Why seek _me_ out? Why fight by _my_ side?"

"Because of who you are, of course." A grimace twisted Vicente's features. "It could not have been easy. But I share your pain."

Gorgoth kept his face smooth, giving no hint of the confusion he was feeling. "What are you talking about?"

"The Purification, of course." The vampire sighed. "It is... a hard thing to do, even for someone with your stoicism. I had to carry one out myself, long ago, and the pain is still with me."

The warrior-shaman drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. It was possible that the Black Hand... "What Purification?"

"Your Purification of the Orsinium Sanctuary, of course." Vicente frowned. "You were forced to kill everyone in the Sanctuary to deal with suspected informers. There has never been a Sanctuary in the Orcish lands since, but... you have served Sithis in your own way since then. And served him well, I have heard."

Gorgoth shook his head. "No, Vicente." He leaned forward. "There was no Purification of the Orsinium Sanctuary. Well, I killed everyone inside it, along with every Dark Brother or Sister in Orsinium, but I was not serving Sithis. Only myself." He remembered that episode of his life well; gaining access to the Brotherhood and the Sanctuary had been easy, given his talent for murder; he had only stayed there for two weeks, learning everything he needed, before summoning Kathutet and putting them all to the sword.

"I don't understand." The vampire's frown deepened. "You were thought to have much potential. That is why the Black Hand-"

"The Black Hand _lied_, Vicente." It seemed unbelievable even to him, but it had to be true if the old vampire had been misled. "Why would they reveal to the Brotherhood that their Sanctuary had been infiltrated and then completely destroyed by an Orc who then prevented them from setting up another Sanctuary until they finally learnt their lesson and stopped trying?" He stood, his voice rising. "Do you really think that I, a servant of my nation no matter the cost, would let a group of assassins pose a threat to Orsinium? Do you truly believe that I would forsake Malacath for _Sithis_?" He glared down at the vampire. "I would never serve the Brotherhood. And to hide their shame, the Black Hand passed it off as just another Purification." Snorting, he shook his head. "But, then, what would you expect from hired knives who like to pretend they have honour?"

The vampire surged to his feet. "I will not-"

"What? Stand there and let your precious upjumped guild be insulted?" Gorgoth walked up to Vicente and glared down at him, making full use of his extra foot of height. "What will you do? Draw that sword and kill the Hero of Kvatch, the last hope of Tamriel?" He smiled; a grim, terrible smile. "I welcome you to try; I haven't had a good challenge since I smashed Azani Blackheart's chest in. Come on, bare your steel and I'll decorate my chambers with some vampire dust."

A snarl was twisting the Dark Brother's features as he stepped back from the warrior-shaman. He wordlessly raised a hand and vanished in a brief flash of pink light. A few pink sparks danced around before fading, the legacy of a teleportation spell. The Orc grunted and sat back down in his chair, wondering if the vampire would stay for the battle. It didn't matter; he was deadly with a blade and skilled with magic from what he'd heard, but he was still only one man. This would be a battle of thousands.

Afterwards, the vengeful vampire might well try to track him down, but the creatures of the night had never worried Gorgoth. And he'd deserved the truth, if nothing else. The Black Hand might be getting a few probing questions in the coming days. But right now, that was no concern. He rose and entered his bedroom, searching the wardrobe until he found what he was looking for; a cache of several Welkynd Stones. They would be needed.

* * *

The midday sun might have finally come out from behind the clouds, but Aerin was still uncomfortably cold despite her thick cloak as she watched proceedings in the courtyard of Castle Bruma while leaning on the keep's outer wall. The clash of steel on steel was the prominent sound as the guardsmen honed their skills in readiness for the battles to come, but Ilend's deep, loud voice cut the air cleanly as he explained the details of fighting Daedra to his latest batch of students. Most were guardsmen from the cities of Cyrodiil; many had seen battle and most were good fighters, but even so, they were listening avidly. None of them wanted to gamble with their lives simply because they couldn't be bothered to listen.

Of course, Ilend himself hated the teaching, but he'd confessed to Aerin in bed the night before that at least he felt like he was doing something constructive. He'd said that if even one man survived because of what he'd been told, he'd be satisfied. And at the moment, the Imperial was keeping his displeasure well-hidden behind his mask of professionalism as he explained how a Dremora might fight with the help of a training dummy and a few volunteers.

Footsteps crunching through the snow drew her attention, and she turned to find an old friend striding towards her, a smile evident on his face. "Good ta see you again, Twitch-Tail," she told the Grand Champion, enthusiastically flinging her arms around him. He chuckled and returned the hug, squeezing her so hard she gasped in complaint.

"It's been too long, Aerin," he rasped, pulling back and prodding her nose. "I was getting bored stuck up at the Temple with only the Blades and Gnaeus for company. He's invisible more often than not these days." He moved to stand beside her, looking into the courtyard with an arm around her shoulder. From the tension in his arm, he was clearly trying very hard not to shiver in what would be extreme cold for him. "Still, I'm guessing what he says is true. Hope you're not tiring our Imperial friend out too much."

She giggled. "Only when he asks for it," she told him slyly. The Argonian barked a laugh.

"How long is he going to be freezing his arse off in there?" he asked.

The Bosmer shrugged. "He's got quite a few more classes before his next break," she said. "A few more hours at least."

"Well, he's not about to teach us anything, so..." The Green Tornado grinned. "How about buying me a drink?"

Aerin laughed as they started to walk away from the castle. "Piss off. How much have you earned?"

"Not twenty-five hundred drakes in a single day, you lucky treehugger." He nudged her in the ribs. "Yes, Lurog informed me of that. Not a bad payment, considering all you did was sit on a few corpses with a sword through your leg."

"At least I earned it honestly instead of prancing around in a glorified sandpit, Green Tornado." The Wood Elf managed a mocking half-bow while walking along. Saliith sniggered and pushed open the door to the nearest tavern. A wave of warmth and noise washed over them as they entered. The room was full of soldiers as expected, but at least there were a few free tables; only a minority of the men in and around Bruma were spending their times in taverns and inns. Most were practising. The Argonian shouldered his way over to an empty table and claimed a chair, his scale armour only rattling slightly as he dropped into the seat.

"So, what brings you down here from those lofty heights?" Aerin asked him as he called for two ales. "Too cold? Or did ya miss my pleasurable company?" She winked.

"Well, actually, I was intending to tell you to get your arse back up there. You don't have to pay for your beds, and the company's just as good, but..." He shrugged. "Now that Ilend's got an occupation, I'm guessing you'll be staying here with him."

"Yeah, ya got that right. He warms my bed."

The Argonian laughed bitterly. "Lucky you. I've had to start sleeping in front of the fire in the Great Hall just to survive the nights lately." He shook his head, starting to wrap his arms around himself before forcing them back onto the table. "I envy you warm-bloods sometimes."

"Yeah, well..." Aerin's voice trailed off as she spotted Lurog and Mazoga deep in conversation at a nearby table. Gorgoth's lover looked somewhat dejected, repeatedly shaking her head in response to her companion's conversation. Saliith followed the Wood Elf's gaze and grunted.

"She hasn't been herself for the last few days," he observed as the Orc got to her feet and strode from the tavern, leaving Lurog rubbing his chin, deep in thought. "Can't imagine why. When I asked her if anything was wrong, she nearly took my head off."

"Could be a lover's dispute," remarked the Bosmer. Saliith turned and met her eyes for a moment before snorting with laughter. Despite knowing both Orcs reasonably well, the notion of Gorgoth being involved in a conventional romance still seemed ludicrous. "Well, ya never know."

"Stranger things have happened. I think." The Grand Champion smiled at the arrival of their ale and buried his face in his tankard. After draining half the beverage, he sighed contentedly and leaned back. "Needed that. I've been training hard every day."

Aerin rolled her eyes. "Sometimes I think you try too hard, Twitch-Tail." She sipped at her ale.

"Some people still call me a paper champion, you know." The Argonian bared his teeth. "While I don't give a rat's arse about the Arena any more, I don't appreciate people thinking I got there by convenience. I want to improve until I can at least equal Agronak."

"Saliith, _no-one_ can equal Agronak. Even Gorgoth might have trouble with him. I know ya want to be at your best, but..." She trailed off, noticing the lizard looking at something behind her with a pleased expression on his face. Twisting around in her chair to follow his gaze, a slow smirk spread over her face. "Ah. Talk of the Daedra, and he appears."

Agronak gro-Malog swung the door shut behind him and made his way over, removing his gauntlets. The last time Aerin had seen him, he'd been Grand Champion and wearing his Raiment of Valour. Now he was Blademaster and was wearing cured furs over steel chainmail and boiled leather, though the ebony scimitar hanging from his belt and the ebony shield on his back were the same he'd been using for the last few years. His stepping down didn't seem to have changed the half-Orc himself, however; he still moved with the same deadly grace, and his golden eyes were sweeping the tavern, analysing any potential threats. He hadn't reigned as Grand Champion for a decade by being careless.

His successor didn't wait for the half-Orc to sit, instead rising and grasping his forearms in greeting. "Good to see you, Agronak," he rasped, genuine warmth in his eyes.

"And you, Saliith," replied the Blademaster, nodding in greeting to Aerin before settling himself in a chair at their table. She'd never really spoken to the Grey Prince in the past, only a few words in passing; she'd been neither high-ranked nor skilled enough to attract his attention, and his training regime had given him little free time. However, her Argonian friend had most likely spoken about her at great length at some point. "I told the Arena of your proposal."

"And?" asked Saliith eagerly, leaning forward and gripping his tankard tightly.

"Some thought I was mad. Ysabel thought that you had brainwashed me and threatened to skin you and wear you as a cloak. But as most of the fighters live in awe of me, they listened." The half-Orc smiled. "Some even acted. I've got forty-odd gladiators with me. They vary in quality, true, but it's better than nothing."

The Green Tornado clenched a triumphant fist. "Most definitely better than nothing," he chuckled. He had good reason to be pleased; forty gladiators represented at least a third of the Arena's strength, and some would be good warriors. "There are no beds to be found in the city, though, not any more. You'll have to camp outside the walls."

"Already taken care of. I've put Aronar in charge of setting up the camp. You know, that Altmeri Hero? Good with his knife-work and better with his Mysticism." Saliith nodded in recognition. Aerin had never heard of the gladiator in question, but most likely he was only known widely by his Arena name. "I doubt many will spend their nights there, though. They've got gold to spend; most likely they'll end up in the beds of whores."

"Dralasa will have a night ta remember," muttered Aerin, sniggering slightly. Agronak gave her a curious sideways glance.

"Well, the whores are certainly profiting, as is just about every armourer and innkeeper in the city," said Saliith. "Prices would be even higher, but the Countess has prevented them from profiteering too much in this time of crisis. Means the soldiers love her, and even the whores and shopkeepers have no real cause for complaint given how well they're doing."

"Seems fair enough. Food prices in the City are through the roof given that most farms are either deserted or burnt." The half-Orc shrugged, then grinned as thought just remembering something. "Those two fans of yours are here in Bruma. Not _that_ fan," he added hastily as the Grand Champion started from his seat with a look of alarm on his face. "Those two Argonians. I can't really call them children any more now that they're Bloodletters."

"Bloodletters? Impressive at their age..." Saliith sighed. "But Huzei is closer to eighteen than nineteen. Neesha is barely _sixteen_. They've got no place on battlefields as bloody as these."

"Put the question to them. Neesha's taken to collecting ears. I think they've seen enough blood, my friend."

"In the Arena, one enemy at a time, with crowds to love them." The Green Tornado shook his head in disgust. "You know what battles is like, Agronak, I'm sure. They're not ready for _that_."

"_You_ should have tried stopping them. I couldn't; they threatened to ride off on their own if I didn't take them." The Grey Prince raised his hands in defence. "And no, I wasn't about to tie them up and leave them in the sewers, or chain them to their mother's bed. They'd have found a way out. They looked determined."

Saliith sighed again and pounded his fist on the table. "Fine. Where are they? I'll need to find them places to stay; if they're here, I won't have them freezing to death before the battle's even started." Aerin grunted in sympathy; if she thought it was cold in Bruma, it would be much worse for the cold-blooded Argonians. She didn't know of any that lived in Bruma on a permanent basis for that reason, and she'd seen very few in the streets.

"Helping Aronar set up camp. A willing pair of hands, as they're one of the few gladiators not interested in prostitutes. And yes, I made sure there were braziers nearby."

The Argonian rose to his feet abruptly. "Then I'll meet them. Aerin, you're at the Snowdrift Inn, correct?" She nodded. "Good. I'll meet you there after sundown for another drink. Until then." He tossed a coin down onto the table and walked out into the streets.

Agronak called for an ale before leaning his elbows on the table and turning to regard her. "You're the girl with the enchanted bow, correct?"

"My greatest accomplishment," she remarked wryly. Around the Arena, she'd been commonly known as 'the girl with that bow' among other less polite things.

If the former Grand Champion had detected her tone, he displayed no signs of it. "That would be good when facing Dremora. I've fought some in my time, and many weapons are useless against that armour."

"Yeah, I've feathered a fair few," responded Aerin nonchalantly, taking a few more sips of ale. It was strong and crude, but she was growing to like the taste.

Agronak's mouth twitched. "Ever think about returning to the Arena?"

The Bosmer snorted. "Sometimes. Whenever I do, I call myself an idiot ta think such stupid thoughts." Her eyes met his. "The Arena got me money that I needed. But now... I don't need it any more. And soon I'll have the home I've never known since I left my father."

The Blademaster was nodding in understanding. "If you survive."

"I intend to."

* * *

Gorgoth stood on the outer wall of Cloud Ruler Temple, alone with his thoughts as he watched the sun start to dip behind the peaks to the west. He'd kept to his chambers for most of the day, thinking over what he would tell Martin. It was vital that the Emperor allow him to leave; as a Blade, he would not disobey a direct command from his Emperor no matter how much it inconvenienced him. Briefly, he thought of the oath he'd sworn to Jauffre at the old Breton's deathbed, but dismissed it; the Emperor would still have use of him until he was crowned, and until then the warrior-shaman would remain a Blade.

The sound of boots crunching through the snow turned his head slightly. An almost imperceptible shimmering appeared in the air next to him, the gravelly voice of Gnaeus Magnus emanating from empty space somewhere around the level of his chest. "You seem deep in thought, greenskin."

"Is my green skin so transparent?"

"No. It just seems to me that an elf like you wouldn't waste time watching mountains grow. So you're thinking." The old ex-hermit snorted. "I hear you might be leaving."

"We will see."

"So you'll abandon us just before the most climatic battle in this bloody war." The Imperial's voice had a hard, bitter edge to it. "And people call _me_ callous. I never took you for a coward, Orc."

"I am no coward." Gorgoth's gaze returned to the distant mountains, their snow-capped peaks shimmering in the rays of the setting sun. "I will always do my best for the cause. _Always_." He turned, looking the Imperial in the eyes – or at least where he thought his eyes were – and taking a step forward. "My actions might be beyond your comprehension now, but you are a fool if you think I will abandon you."

"That's exactly what you're doing," growled Gnaeus through gritted teeth. "Sodding off alone on the eve of battle to Divines know where? A true hero would lead those who idolise him, not fuck off and leave them to get slaughtered while he finds something more important than the entire bloody realm." The Imperial spat and turned on his heel, stalking off towards the Great Hall.

The Orc turned back to watch the mountains, folding his arms. Inevitably, many would misunderstand him. Martin, however, had the Dragon Blood of the Septims; he would see more than lesser men. But would he have the wisdom to allow his champion freedom of action? Gorgoth shook his head. Only time would tell.

More footsteps turned his head once again. Baurus stepped up to stand beside him, his face still and emotionless as he surveyed the countryside. "Martin wants you. He's in the Great Hall." The Orc nodded and started off in the direction of the hall, the Redguard falling in beside him. It was likely that the young Blade was feeling something similar to Gnaeus, though he wasn't making his thoughts known. A few of the Blades huddling around the braziers shot them glances before concentrating once again on keeping warm as the sun's heat started to desert them.

Shoving the doors open, the warrior-shaman walked into the Great Hall, leaving Baurus to cut off the biting wind. Inside, Martin beckoned to him from his seat by the fire, with Grandmaster Steffan standing at his right shoulder. Also in the hall were about forty off-duty Blades trying to look inconspicuous, along with Saliith and his two young protégés. After failing to find them a warm enough place to stay in the city, the Grand Champion had persuaded Captain Varsis to let the two of them sleep with him in front of the fire.

The ex-priest was keeping his face smooth and unreadable as Gorgoth approached. "You're the Hero of Kvatch," he told the Orc. "You give hope and inspiration to our army and you're one of the most potent weapons we have. And who else has any chance of surviving a Great Gate?" He shook his head. "We need you, Gorgoth. Why would you leave?"

Stiffening his back and folding his arms, the warrior-shaman looked around the hall before answering. "We have around forty-five hundred men, with hundreds more coming soon. Good soldiers, yes, but few have seen pitched battle, and even fewer have fought Daedra. They will need experience to better stand up to a Daedric battle line." He paused, meeting Martin's eyes. "If we wait, they will again that valuable experience. Yes, some will die, but they will be replaced by the men still to come. We all know that our forces are sufficient to keep the Gates around Bruma suppressed."

"Yes, we can hold back the Daedric tide for a while yet," interrupted Steffan, his face hard behind his helmet's cheek guards. "That doesn't answer the Emperor's question."

"No, it does not. I am merely telling you that our forces will not collapse in my absence, and that waiting would be beneficiary. As for me..." The Orc pulled a Welkynd Stone from his belt back. Martin quirked an eyebrow as he took in the glowing blue crystal. "I brought several of these back from Miscarcand. You know of their uses?"

"I do," responded the heir, looking thoughtful. "One can fully restore your magical pool, but with sufficient expertise, they can be used in complex spells as well..."

"Yes. One such use would be to briefly increase your magicka reserves past normal levels." A steel-clad finger tapped the crystal. "Tell me, Martin, do you know of the Mark and Recall spells?"

"I've read about them," replied the Imperial, frowning. "They're rare, however. I don't know them myself..." He leaned forward slightly in his seat. "You have a Mark?"

"I have been unable to Recall to it since I left Orsinium. The magical power required was beyond even me. But with this..." The corner of Gorgoth's mouth twitched. "Martin, I intend to go home." Home. It was almost a foreign concept to him at times.

"Orsinium?" Steffan's face twisted into a grimace. "Your fight is _here_, Gorgoth, not thousands of miles away."

"I know. I will return." The Orc's hard eyes bored into Martin's. "I would not be going if I did not think it vital."

"What do you think you'll find there?" asked Captain Renault, previously unnoticed from her position near the fire. "King Gortwog has his forces mostly mobilised, but many of them are abroad helping the Bretons. He has controlled the Crisis in Orsinium, true, but he will not weaken his kingdom, not for you."

Gorgoth turned to meet her gaze and smiled. She visibly repressed a shudder. "And _that_, Knight Captain, is where you are wrong." He turned back to the Emperor. "Redguards can claim to be whatever they want, but _Orcs_ are the best soldiers in Tamriel. Our forces here are competent, but few are elite. I can bring you back several hundred of the best warriors in the world. I know it."

Steffan looked sideways at his Emperor. "We could use a few shock troops," he muttered.

Martin rose to his feet, meeting the Orc's golden gaze. "How long would it take you?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"If everything goes as I have planned it, little more than a week. I will return through Skyrim. Orcish cavalry can move very quickly if we take the right measures." Memories rose unbidden in his head, memories of long dashes across rolling plains with a strong warhorse between his legs. "But if it is a week, two weeks, a month... I _will_ return. I swear it. I will _not_ abandon this cause. It is worth fighting for." He nodded grimly. "It is worth dying for."

"That's the first sensible thing you've said since entering this hall, greenskin," snorted Gnaeus, having entered the Great Hall unnoticed. He harrumphed as various Blades looked around, trying to locate the source of his disembodied voice. "You bugger off to Orsinium and come back with a few hundred Orcs... what of it? The time to strike is _now_." He moved forward, his footsteps and the shimmering of the enchantment betraying his presence as he stepped up to confront the Orc. "You've been a whirlwind since I first met you, never wasting time, never turning aside... well, now that we can finally make a move, you want to delay." He spat. "You forgot about the Dragonfires?"

Martin nodded. "He has a point. Every hour the Dragonfires are dark is another hour where the magical seals have weakened. Can you justify any delay?"

"Yes. If we rush into this battle without being fully prepared, we will die, and Tamriel will die with us." He looked around the Great Hall, meeting the eyes of his comrades. "We are forty-five hundred men, without a clear plan of action and without any significant number of battlemages. Wait a week, and we will have battlemages, we will have an experienced general, we will have far more experience... and then, maybe then, we will be ready to face the numberless hordes that Dagon can throw at us." His unwavering gaze returned to the Emperor. "I don't know how long I will be in the Great Gate. This army will have to survive until I get the Great Sigil Stone or all is doomed." He shook his head. "At the moment, I am not confident in victory, and no intelligent man would be. Martin, you _must_ let me go."

The ex-priest turned away and stared into the fire. Silence fell in the Great Hall. Gorgoth folded his arms and waited patiently as the man he had sworn an oath to unconsciously stroked his chin, deep in thought. After a few minutes, the heir turned and fixed the Orc with his piercing blue gaze. "Swear that you will be back within ten days."

Gorgoth nodded without hesitation. "I swear on my honour that I will do my utmost to return within ten days." Those words were steel to him; some would consider their oath something to be broken if faced with hardship, but Gorgoth was nothing without his honour. If he ever broke his word he would have no choice but to fall on his sword. He would get back within ten days or die trying.

"Then go." The Imperial moved forward to stand directly in front of him, the drop in tension palpable as the watching Blades realised that their Emperor and their Hero were not about to disagree. "Go and return with whatever aid you can find. Go with my blessing. And... good luck." A wry smile plucked at Martin's lips. "I know what you're going to face back in Orsinium."

The warrior-shaman grunted. He was right; while nothing would distract the Orc from his mission, he wouldn't pass up the chance to see a certain man about a certain price on his head. "The sooner I leave, the better," he claimed, holding up the Welkynd Stone.

Nodding, Martin motioned to Baurus, who saluted and moved to stand at his right shoulder. "I'll want a few words first. In private." Without waiting for a response, he started off in the direction of his chambers, his bodyguard shadowing his every step. Gorgoth took a lingering look around the Great Hall before following. Renault stepped out of the dispersing crowd to block his way, placing a hand on his arm.

"Be careful, Gorgoth," she warned him, a worried look visible from behind her helmet's cheek guards. "I know what you'll be walking into when you go home."

He shook his head. "No," he said, his voice quiet. "You don't." He removed her arm and continued after Martin, ignoring her frustrated grunt. Her spy network might have given her more information than he was comfortable with, but she would never know what it felt like to be at war with her own father.

The ex-priest didn't stop until he reached the door to his chambers, telling Baurus to wait outside and guard the entrance as he invited Gorgoth in, closing the door behind them. Folding his arms, the warrior-shaman looked around the spacious antechamber, which had changed little from his last visit. Papers and books about Daedra were strewn across the large table, and Volendrung was leaning against the wall next to the doorway to the Emperor's bedchamber. Goldbrand was being used to pin down several maps, showing no signs of the battles it had been in over the past few months.

Martin stepped over to his window, watching the setting sun intently for a few seconds before turning back to the Orc. "How do you feel about the Divines?" he asked bluntly.

One of Gorgoth's eyebrows twitched. "I respect the power that they can wield, but they will never be my gods."

The heir chuckled, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "Ironic, then, that the Nine have chosen _you_ to be their champion. I wouldn't have believed it myself if I hadn't seen it first-hand. The Nine do move in mysterious ways sometimes."

Gorgoth snorted. "Gods are confusing to all of us sometimes, but I doubt I would be the champion of the same Divines who have every reason to hate me." He would have called himself the champion of Malacath, but that Daedric Lord was as unpredictable as any god, even for a follower as devout as Gorgoth.

"I was confused at first as well," admitted Martin. "When I was praying for hours in the Chapel of Akatosh during the Battle of Kvatch, I had never imagined what form our saviour might take. I might have even suspected that the divine intervention would be direct and obvious." He shook his head with a rueful smile. "But the gods are more subtle than that. They sent us you, a devotee of Malacath. A hard, cruel Orc, considered by many to be someone to be hated and feared rather than respected. But you are the answer to the prayers that everyone offers up to the Nine." He moved closer, meeting the Orc's gaze, his voice strong with conviction. "Who else could you be? Dagon, a Daedric Lord, is invading Nirn, the realm of the Divines. They _have_ to respond; normally they could watch mortal affairs from afar and take action only if it pleased them, but now the very existence of what they created is under threat. So they sent us a champion in our hour of need. You."

The warrior-shaman returned the Emperor's intense stare, tapping a canine. He was speaking sense, unlike many of the priests of the Divines that the Orc had come across in the past. And the Imperial had never been prone to religious delusion in the past, instead seeming to be a man who could well be the makings of a good Emperor. "You might be right," he grunted. "But what is your point? I will not betray Malacath merely because I could be the champion of your gods."

"Renault gave me the idea that you'll need all the help you can get in Orsinium," replied Martin, grimacing. "Whatever else I am now, I used to be a priest, and I can still give you the blessing of the Nine. It might give you a vital edge-" he cut off as Gorgoth held up a fist.

"No. I do not doubt the power of the Divines, but I am not so desperate for help that I would accept their blessing. Malacath would frown on it." He shook his head and overrode the heir's protest. "I will not bend on this. Your gods are not my gods. Leave it at that."

Martin nodded reluctantly. "I thought you'd refuse." He sighed. "Is there anything you need before you leave? Any messages...?"

"No. There is nothing I need to say." The Orc's fist clenched around the glowing Welkynd Stone. "Ten days. I will return."

The Emperor's smile was grim. "I hope so." He stepped back, returning to the window. "Don't let me keep you. I know how much you value time..."

Gorgoth nodded and focused on the crystal in his hand, pushing Martin from his mind as he concentrated on the spell. Recall was simple enough for someone of his expertise, but drawing power through a Welkynd Stone was something he had never done before. He reached out in his mind to the magical power pulsing in his grasp, delicately starting to siphon the ancient Ayleid magic into the spell that was starting to form in his right hand. Connecting the spell to his Mark, back in his house thousands of miles away in Orsinium, he started to add his own considerable magical reserves to the spell, feeling the sheer cost of the long-distance magic starting to drain him dry. The crystal grew brighter in his hand, the light growing in intensity until it outshone the setting sun. Martin winced and turned away as the warrior-shaman forced his last reserves of magicka into the spell.

The Welkynd Stone shattered, spraying shards of blue crystal everywhere, but the Orc had already disappeared, momentarily racked by the extreme discomfort of teleportation before reappearing in a shower of pink sparks. He staggered, putting a hand out to steady himself against the cold stone walls. As expected, the massive drain of magicka had exhausted him, but he kept himself upright through sheer force of will, closing his eyes until the sense of disorientation eased. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and slowly looked around, forcing his breathing back to normal.

He was standing in the centre of a tiny room, bare of anything but stone walls, an oak door, and crystals embedded in the ceiling to provide some light. The change in temperature – it was significantly colder here than it had been in Martin's chambers – had immediately told him that the spell had been successful, but it was still good to see the inside of his teleportation room. To prevent him accidentally teleporting into anything, he had laid the room aside purely for the purpose of teleportation when his house was built. Some had called it drastic, but those people would not have heard of the Telvanni who had killed himself and one of his servants, who had happened to be standing on one of the wizard's Marks.

Forcing himself to stand straight, the warrior-shaman stepped up to the door and pushed it open, stepping out into the ground floor of his house. While most of the buildings in the city of Orsinium were nothing but basic mud huts, Gorgoth had helped plan the building of his own home, a three-floor stone building located halfway between the Palace and the South Wall. It had cost him most of his money at the time, but he had everything he would ever require from a place of residence, including an expansive training yard. Right now, however, all he desired was the security and rest offered by his large reinforced bed.

He moved down the corridor and entered the long entrance hall, which consisted of the two large doors that was the main entrance, along with a spiral stairwell allowing access to all three levels. Everything was stone or wood, simple and stark in design; there was none of the elaborate and pointless ornamentation that might be found in the homes of most Bretons. The warrior-shaman stepped up to one of the few windows and looked out; the sun was slightly higher in the sky than it would be back in Bruma, giving light enough to show him that what he could see of the city was largely unchanged. Satisfied, he turned and left the hall; the inevitable barrage of letters lying outside his locked door could wait until he was rested.

Entering the larger sitting room, he gazed around, noting the good condition of the large, strong, well-padded armchairs and the sparse mantel that lined the wall above the large fireplace. The Orc noted with approval that the bare stone floor was clean and the ashes in the fireplace were no more than a week old. Yagorz was keeping the place well-maintained, even in his master's absence. The unheated air was cold, colder than anything the Orsimer had experienced since leaving his homeland; while the well-insulated walls would keep the worst of the winter chill out, lesser men would be shivering violently.

A rustling in another doorway caught Gorgoth's attention, and he turned to nod in approval as one of his resident skeletons marched through the door, mace and shield held ready to deal with any intruder. Upon recognising the man who had reanimated it, the undead warrior lowered its weapon and made a jerky half-bow. The warrior-shaman had four such skeletons guarding his property; all had been strong Orcs in life, and his reanimation had been careful, preserving their strength while adding magical forces that would make them an even greater threat. Steel plate armour and well-forged weapons, along with their restless spirit and undying energy, made them excellent guards and the source of several tales told by nearby mothers to keep children away from his residence.

"Have there been any intruders in my absence?" asked the warrior-shaman. While the skeletons could not speak, they could understand Orcish speech, and could make rudimentary responses with signs.

The undead warrior shook its head, but then pointed behind Gorgoth into the hallway and mimed writing. He'd been left a lot of letters outside the door, but that was to be expected.

"Where is Yagorz?" he inquired. His slave would know to feed himself and maintain the house, but Gorgoth had never left for so long without notice before. The skeleton pointed to the doorway it had come from, then mimed shovelling food into its mouth. Nodding, the warrior-shaman waved a hand, dismissing his minion to go about his duties while he went to check on his slave.

Yagorz was, as reported, in the kitchen, slowly chewing and swallowing a small roll of cheese. The large, heavily-built Orc's grey woollen tunic was soiled and stained, but at least he seemed well-fed and in good health. His dull yellow eyes stared blankly ahead as he mechanically ate, not reacting to his master until Gorgoth stepped up beside him to pull open one of the cupboards to retrieve a hunk of bread.

The Orcish slave was over a decade younger than his master – Gorgoth did not know his true age – but he looked older. His black hair was lank and matted, hanging loosely to his shoulder blades, and his dull eyes were deep-set in a face that was more yellow than green. He turned to regard his master with an expression devoid of any feeling or intelligence, swallowing the remainder of his cheese.

"Go and fetch the letters outside the front door," the Orsimer commanded him. "Take them to my bedchamber, but lock the front doors behind you again first." Yagorz nodded mutely, mechanically wiping away the slight trickle of drool running down his chin as he turned to obey. His master watched him go, gnawing on his hunk of bread. It was almost stale; he'd have to get more supplies soon enough.

He'd first met Yagorz three years ago, shortly after taking Blood King from his own father. The Orc had been a young boy alone on the road, abandoned after his parents had been killed by bandits. Gorgoth had been on the way back to the cities with some of his mercenaries, and Lurog had suggested they take him in and train him as a warrior, while Burzukh had recommended that they kill him as a mercy, but instead the warrior-shaman had taken Yagorz back to Orsinium and into his newly-built house.

He had never bothered to lean anything more than the young Orc's name, and Yagorz had not volunteered anything else before the warrior-shaman had begun his experimentation. Over the days that followed, Gorgoth had tested out numerous theories and spells on the boy's mind, warping and twisting it beyond recognition until he had lost all power of free will and speech, among other things. Realising his value as an utterly loyal servant incapable of betrayal, Gorgoth had kept him alive instead of killing him out of hand, and had turned him into a slave capable of obeying most of what his master told him to do, but little else. He could survive for a long time provided he had a supply of food and drink, but his master had not let him out of the house since he had first entered; the world was no place for him now. Slavery was illegal in Orsinium, but making him a paid servant would be pointless.

Stuffing the last of his bread into his mouth, the Orc started off in the direction of his basement, nodding in greeting to another of his skeletons on the way there. The underground part of his house was used almost entirely for storage, including something he had been desiring ever since he had been freed from the Imperial prison. That desire had been easily suppressed by both his discipline and the impossibility of retrieving it, but now that he was back in his home, there was nothing to stop Gorgoth gro-Kharz once again armouring himself like a true warrior of Orsinium.

Prior to the fateful events that had seen him defeated by deceit and taken from Orsinium, the warrior-shaman had maintained two identical suits of armour. Some had wondered over his decision to have an expensive spare forged, but now he was vindicated; his first suit had been captured by the Imperials and broken up for scrap. While it was an undignified end for such an impressive suit, Gorgoth doubted there had been much choice in the matter; few Imperials would be able to wear his armour, let alone move in it.

He manoeuvred around the barrels of food that reached the ceiling of his basement and walked up to the armour stands, noting with approval that Yagorz hadn't let any part of it grow dusty. Like many Orcs, Gorgoth's armour had three layers; the first was thick boiled leather that would fit between his clothing and his armour, preventing any chafing and providing some protection from what few attacks would penetrate the outer layers. On top of that, he would wear heavy steel chainmail, offering formidable protection by itself. Lurog had been wearing similar chainmail during all his time in Cyrodiil, and had yet to take a serious wound.

The outermost layer, which would take the most punishment, was thick steel plate over two inches thick. It was forged by master armourers using steel created from the finest iron of the Wrothgarian mountains, giving the metal a grey hue that was so dark that most people mistook it for black at first glance. Unlike his leather and chainmail, which were simple in design, Gorgoth had overseen the design of his plate armour himself. He had instructed the armourers to make it as efficient and sturdy as they could, but had also told them to make it as terrifying to behold as possible. They had succeeded.

His armour was without ornamentation, with no sigil or symbol, and the only enchantment was on the helmet, but he needed no magic for it to be effective. The jagged angles and multiple straight lines of folded steel running down his breastplate made him appear even taller, and the wicked spikes protruding from the pauldrons and elbows made the effect even more intimidating. His gauntlets bore no spikes, but the force of his punch combined with the heavy steel and sharp edges would make any blow with his fist devastating nonetheless. The helmet was similar, with the straight lines creating an ominous visage, reinforced by the two eye holes that seemed to be drawn down in a silent glare. A crown of tall spikes topped the helm, adding several inches to his height. Two holes in the back of the helmet would allow his war braids to flow freely down his back, but they and the eye holes were the only openings in the complete suit. To augment the slightly limited vision, the warrior-shaman had enchanted the helm with a powerful detect life spell that was refined enough to let him know exactly what he was fighting even if he couldn't see much of them.

Gazing upon his armour, Gorgoth felt a small smile curl the corner of his mouth. He would no longer have to put his trust in the unreliable and relatively light plate armours he had made use of in Cyrodiil. Now he could know with confidence that he could shrug off sword-strokes, allowing him to focus almost entirely on his attack. He started stripping off the steel he had acquired at Cloud Ruler Temple, dropping the various parts on the floor until he was clad only in his old, ragged furs. Tomorrow, he would go to the palace and deal with the fate of Tamriel, but tonight he would rest and know that he would once again be armoured as a proud warrior of Orsinium.

* * *

**A/N: If you're having trouble visualising Gorgoth's armour, it's a bit like Sauron's armour in the LOTR films (that's what I meant by the straight lines and folded metal, etc.)(and note that Gorgoth's armour is a lot darker grey than Sauron's). Of course, it's sometimes hard to find the words to describe what your eyes can see so simply... anyhow, be sure to tell me what you think in a review, and I'll be sure to try and speed up my writing again. Constructive criticism is always appreciated.**


	45. Empowerment

**A/N: No, it's not dead; this fic will never die, though I don't blame you if you thought it was dead. It's been far, FAR too long since my last update; ten weeks is simply not good enough unless you have a perfect excuse, which I don't. So all I can do is beg your forgiveness and do my best not to let you - my loyal readers - down in the future. At least it's good to know I haven't been abandoned by my reviewers, much as I deserve it:**

**Mr. Right: Ah, the good old D&D alignments... I nailed Gorgoth down as Lawful Evil, myself. Lawful because he has a very strict code of honour that he won't violate, and evil because... well, he's not inherently evil, but he is willing to do very evil things (e.g child sacrifice) if he thinks it would benefit him, so that puts him down as evil in my book.**

**Random Reader (first review): Yes, that sounds about right, though it doesn't look much like Skyrim's Orcish armour. And yes, Gorgoth as a leader of heavy cavalry could be regarded as 'True Gorgoth'; his allies haven't seen the extent of his martial power yet. And as for Bethesda's placing of Orcs in light armour... well, that's Bethesda. Remember the debacles of blue Dunmer and Agronak's incomprehensible name?**

**Underpaid Critic: Well, given the close nature of the Gates and the battleground they'd create, cavalry wouldn't have much freedom of movement, and I doubt the city's Town Guards had much cavalry training. Orcish horsemen, however, are of course extensively trained. And if my updates take as long as this, you'll have long finished Skyrim before BaS is finished... here's hoping that's not the case, though.**

**Rokibfd: There are no adequate reasons for MY tardiness either, so you are completely excused. Anyhow, as for Gorgoth, it's semi-clear where he gets his abilities; I'll quote UESP for this: 'A ****Hero** (or **Heroine**) is a mortal blessed (and cursed, from another point of view) with a special fate and the ability to rule his or her own destiny. Heroes are closely related to the Elder Scrolls. They often grow to become far more powerful than most other mortals.'

**Gorgoth, like the Nerevarine and the other Heroes, is more powerful because he's a Hero. So, essentially, he was born that way, though the brutal training of his father and the shamans definitely helped. As for the 'most powerful illusionist', I'll quote: 'some of the shamans had told him that he might well be the most powerful Illusionist' - some of Orsinium's shamans (a province not noted for its skill in Illusion) think he MIGHT be the most powerful Illusionist. They could quite easily be wrong (in fact, they probably are).**

**Ah, Necromancy... it's definitely got potential. As for the Dark Brotherhood, there's not much more to tell about Gorgoth's participation, but he'll probably go into it later. As for Aerin's reaction... wait and see. ;)**

**'memories of long dashes across rolling plains with a strong warhorse between his legs' is the quote you're searching for, and it doesn't seem too bad to me... 'between his legs' just means he's riding a horse normally. And as for 'episodes', that word was invented long before TV; it might have come to be closely identified with TV, but it's not used just for TV.**

**Random Reader (second review): Ah, yes, I thought someone would notice that... yes, there are definite similarities, but note that I only started reading ASOIAF AFTER I started writing BaS, and I'd thought up Gorgoth's armour a long, long time ago, so any similatiries (including a fair few between Orcs and the Dothraki) are entirely coincidental.**

**And I'll end that massive Author's Note there.**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-five: Empowerment**

Dawn was still only a pale grey tinge to the eastern sky when Gorgoth woke. His bedroom was large, but it had to be; the space was filled with the massive bed, the numerous overflowing tables and several wardrobes, along with the large weapon rack that currently held all the weapons he would ever need at any one time. Light from crystals embedded in the ceiling and stone walls would provide illumination even when the sun wasn't streaming through the three windows, all of which faced east. Three armour stands stood naked where previously they would have been holding his armour in position; he hadn't bothered bringing his suit up from the basement the night before.

Swinging his feet onto the cold bare floor, the Orc rose and walked naked to the window, looking out over the city. In the distance, the Iron Walls were standing tall and proud as they had been ever since King Gortwog had built the city from the ground upwards, naming it for the ancient city of the Orcs destroyed in the First Era. Once again, the Orcish people had a nation to call home and a city to proud of. While the borders of Gortwog's rule had expanded far beyond the city, this would forever be the beating heart of the Orcish nation. It might be little more than a glorified collection of mud huts for the most part, but it was home. A home that the weaker races had tried to deny them for centuries.

"Worth fighting for," grunted Gorgoth to himself. "Worth dying for." His eyes fell upon the Royal Palace, a colossal structure of iron and stone. Many bad memories would await him in that place, but good memories as well. He closed his eyes and took himself back to that fateful day three years ago. The stabbing pain of his shattered ribcage was still vivid all these years later, and his punctured lungs would have killed him quickly if shamans had not been on hand to heal him, but his father had come off worse. Gorgoth's lips curled slightly at the memory of Blood King rolling from his father's grasp, dark smoke rising from the ancient weapon as it left its wielder and chose another, the victor of the combat. After that, none of his father's men had dared challenge the wielder of Blood King, and he had finally gained true freedom.

His father had been a mighty warrior, but Blood King looked past the surface and looked deeply at the Orc inside. Malacath's weapon had studied Gorgoth and decided that it liked what it saw. Over the years, wielders had seen the weapon wax and wane in strength depending on their own abilities; while his father had only been able to awaken part of the destructive power of the massive mace, many shamans agreed that Gorgoth was one of the strongest wielders of the weapon in history. Fitting for the Hero of Kvatch, the Orc who would apparently save Tamriel.

Shaking his head, the warrior-shaman turned away from the view and walked over to the wardrobe, jerking it open and looking over the clothes held within. Wolf and bear fur was prominent, as expected in the Wrothgarian Mountains. Dressing himself in clothes far finer yet just as practical than those he had taken to Cyrodiil, he took a dagger from one of the smaller tables and sat down at the biggest table to work his way through the several letters he'd been left.

Most were unimportant – notes from his former comrades-in-arms wondering where he was, or requests for his services that would now be out of date – but there was one that bore the royal seal. Opening it, he nodded slightly in contentment as he read the words that absolved him of any blame in the mission that had seen him captured and taken to Tamriel. The mine's corrupt owner had since been dealt with. The meaning of that was left ambiguous, but Gorgoth was under no illusions; as soon as King Gortwog had heard of the ambush and Gorgoth's capture, he would no doubt have wasted little time in making sure the Imperial had a slow and agonising death, no matter what the Empire said.

Thrusting the letters aside, the Orc rose and left the room, nodding to the skeleton standing guard at his bedroom door before heading down to the dining hall. Yagorz, fitting seamlessly back into his old routines, had left his master's breakfast prepared on the large central table. The brain-dead slave silently brought his master tankards of beer as he ate his way through enough food to give him the energy he'd need, but not enough to trouble his wounded stomach. There were no windows in the dining hall – torches and crystals illuminated the cavernous chamber – but Gorgoth judged that the sun would soon be rising by the time he had finished. Pushing back his plate, he drained his tankard and told his slave to follow him down to the basement.

While the warrior-shaman could put his armour on himself, it took a long time alone and it was difficult to get right, so he let Yagorz and his skilful hands equip him. As the heavy layers were placed over his body, he suppressed the urge to smile. Being properly armoured after making do with inferior plate for so long gave him a sense of security. The comforting weight was familiar to him, and his long training combined with his formidable strength enabled him to move quicker than many would think possible. A skilled, fast foe in light armour would outmanoeuvre him, but even if they could dodge around him, penetrating his defences was a daunting task. In the past, the Orc had been able to deflect many sword-swings with nothing more than a flick of his forearm.

His slave finished and stepped back. Gorgoth rolled his shoulders and took a few steps, testing the weight. This time, he didn't suppress the small smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth. "Get back to your duties," he told Yagorz. "I am going out soon. I might return." The Orc nodded expressionlessly and shambled out.

The warrior-shaman returned to his bedroom and pulled his belts on. One was a strap that ran across his breastplate, through which he firmly slotted Blood King and Sinweaver, the head and hilt protruding out behind his shoulders. Around his waist he tightened a heavier belt, securing the Thornblade to his right hip and the Akaviri dai-katana to his left. Also hanging from the tough leather were several powerful healing potions and an enchanted wallet which held several thousand Septims along with a few enchanted rings which he used periodically when the time called for them. His helmet also hung from his belt, held by a small ring near where his ear would be, specially designed for the purpose. When not in combat or travelling, he couldn't afford to sacrifice one hand to hold his helmet all the time. It could be removed from the hook on his belt and donned within seconds; essential in any ambush.

It was time. The Orsimer walked briskly to the hallway, undoing the magical locks that secured his front door before stepping out and securing it behind him. There was no doubt that his father – who had almost definitely found out that his son had returned - would have eyes watching his every move; he'd rather not risk them breaking into his house while he was at the Palace. Turning from his doors, he stepped away from his house and took in the sight of the city of Orsinium at dawn.

For all of the city's vaunted glory, Gorgoth was never one to deny a truth; most of the city was a haphazard slum of small hovels and muddy streets where the snow had long since turned to slush. He had spent his own childhood in that sprawl, beating those weaker than him and being beaten in turn by those older and stronger than himself. Despite the poverty, however, the slums bred a hard people, and the strength of the Orcs was the foundation of the kingdom. There were pockets of affluence, however; there were many markets in the city, and various Orcs had become rich enough to build themselves fair-sized houses similar to Gorgoth's. Barracks and other training yards were commonplace; while not every Orc was expected to be a warrior, most of the population could swing a weapon well enough to defend themselves. Weakness was despised; despite the recent reforms, the old beliefs of Malacath still ran strong in places.

Surrounding the filth and the mud were the formidable – and famous – Iron Walls of Orsinium. When the land had been reclaimed by King Gortwog, he had ordered the construction of walls that would keep them safe from the massive hosts of enemies that would inevitably besiege the city. They had taken years to complete, but they were widely regarded as even stronger than the walls of the original Orsinium; stone foundations reached deep into the ground, and the wall itself had a core of stone, which was stiffened and covered by thick layers of the dark iron of the Wrothgarian mines. As the shadows receded, the snow-capped west wall shone in the rising sun's light, towering high above the city, so thick that twelve Orcish soldiers could stand in line abreast and still have enough room to swing their weapons. King Gortwog was no fool; knowing that the original Iron Walls had been reduced by heavy rain, he had included the most powerful shamans of the young nation in the building, laying on spells and enchantments that would make the wall effectively impervious to the elements. The Iron Walls were not impregnable – no fortification was – but Nova Orsinium would not fall easily.

Turning away from the sight which had been ever-present for most of his years, Gorgoth strode away from his home, out into the street. His house – easily recognisable by its formidable iron-and-stone construction – rose up in the midst of a slum similar to the one he had grown up in. The street was unpaved, the ground cold and hard from the winter's chill, the ankle-deep snow not yet crushed underfoot. Around him were windowless mud huts, fires within springing into life to bring some warmth to the inhabitants. Many Orcs were already going about their business, heading to the market or to their workplace. Guards in heavy chainmail or plate armour were patrolling with their weapons – mostly halberds or large two-handed battleaxes – slung over their shoulders. Several gave Gorgoth more than a second glance as he passed them on his way to the Palace.

King Gortwog's Royal Palace and its grounds occupied a large area, the walls and structure overshadowing much of the surrounding area. Like White Gold Tower, it could be seen from most of the city, being built on the highest point of the mountain that Orsinium had been built on. From the tallest towers of the Palace, the King would be able to see over the Iron Walls and gaze across the sizeable domain that he ruled. He might be a subject of the Emperor, but here, in this remote and savage land, few would ever dispute his authority. His palace itself looked formidable; there was none of the artistry of Akaviri or elven buildings, merely simple stonework reinforced with iron, build to withstand storms and sieges.

The streets remained much the same until the warrior-shaman drew close to his destination, becoming paved and lined with better-built houses. Statues of old Orcish heroes were visible everywhere; King Gortwog had forbidden any statue of him made while he was still alive, but no doubt many would be erected as soon as possible; he was truly the best ruler Nova Orsinium could have hoped for. Some day, Gorgoth himself might have a statue here. They might even make a few of him in Cyrodiil despite never truly knowing the mer behind the title of Hero of Kvatch.

Ahead of him, the Palace gates were open, the paved entrance between the two massive iron gates guarded by a squad of twenty soldiers, alert despite the early hour. As the warrior-shaman moved to enter the courtyard beyond, the sergeant moved to block his path, plate-clad fist clenched and held upwards as the other hand gripped the haft of his battleaxe. "What is your business?" he asked in a gruff voice, raising an eyebrow as Gorgoth continued his advance before blinking in shock as he recognised him. "You... you're back?"

"Clearly," responded the warrior-shaman, looking around at the squad. Most showed some form of recognition, and all were clearly experienced soldiers; in contrast to many courts around the world, King Gortwog never used inexperienced troops to secure his place of residence. Several were muttering amongst themselves, but from behind the helmets of a few Gorgoth thought he could detect some pleased grins. "Where is the King?"

"He'll be meeting an emissary from Daggerfall in about two hours in the throne room. Before that... well, the King's private dealings are none of my concern." The sergeant shook his head. "I guess you'll want access to the grounds now. I'm not one to stop you, though some inside might... question you."

"An understatement." Gorgoth snorted. "I know the risks. Step aside."

The sergeant bowed his head and stepped to the side, allowing the warrior-shaman to stride purposefully through the open gates. He cast a critical eye around the vast courtyard and the numerous buildings as he walked, various memories conjuring themselves. The Orc had spent much of his adolescent years in this place, learning as much as his father and his men could successfully teach him. Misery, hate and anger had almost claimed him in those dark times, but his natural reserve and stoicism – along with support from the few who had genuinely loved him – had seen him through until the shamans came for him.

At the far ended of the courtyard were the stone steps – wide enough to march an army up – that led to the throne room's enormous, elaborately-engraved doors, but the Orsimer turned aside. Ignoring the inquisitive stares of the numerous guardsmen and the other residents of the Palace, he made for one of the smaller entrances, a small doorway used mainly by guardsmen and servants. He wanted to wander the halls and take in the feeling of what it was like to be home, even for such a brief time. And, of course, within half an hour most of the Orcs in the Palace would know where he was; he fully expected to be approached within minutes by someone with guarded motives.

He had walked the stone-walled corridors for mere minutes before being approached by someone whose motives were most definitely not guarded. Gulak gro-Kharag's presence was heralded by the clinking of his armour, crafted in the same triple-layered construction as Gorgoth's. While the Orc wasn't as tall or as physically large as the warrior-shaman, he was still bulky and was devastating with the massive double-axe strapped to his back. He had to be; as Bloodguard to an Orcish lord, he would have to be prepared to paint himself black with the blood of his enemies before letting his master come to harm. At the moment, Gulak's helmet was swinging from his belt, and his heavily scarred face – he had been fighting for over a century – wore a small, knowing smile.

"I knew you'd be here before long," he grunted, falling in beside Gorgoth, his voice harsh and gravelly. "My lord wants to see you. Immediately."

"Is it a Lord of Orsinium summoning a warrior-shaman, or a father summoning his son?" the Orsimer asked, keeping his face devoid of all emotion. Gulak was the Orc his father had used to teach him many of his basic combat lessons, and his old teacher had always been good at reading people.

"I don't give a shit," growled the Bloodguard. He never had been one to waste words. "You know he doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Gorgoth nodded shortly and followed the other Orc through the Palace, ignoring the various second glances he was given by the guardsmen and servants. He'd intended to see his father at some point anyway; better to get it out of the way with sooner rather than later. The only sound as they walked was the ring of their boots on the stone floor; conversation would achieve little and Gulak had never been much for talking, due to one of his numerous scars pulling his mouth into a permanent lopsided sneer. He rarely bothered to string many sentences together unless asked to recount the story of how he gained any one of his dozens of scars.

After several minutes, they eventually arrived at the entrance to the chambers his father used whenever at the palace, Gulak motioning the warrior-shaman inside with a jerk of his head. Ruthlessly crushing down any emotions or nervousness that might threaten to affect him, Gorgoth shoved the door open and stepped inside, letting it swing closed behind him. The entrance room was as sparse as it always had been; cold stone walls adorned only by the banners of enemies defeated in battle, some of which were splattered with dried blood. A few chairs and a carpet were arranged in front of the roaring fire in the hearth, which lent warmth to the room as shadows flickered on the walls.

The mer standing in front of the fire – clad in full battle armour with his helmet swinging from his belt, as was his custom – was a giant even among Orcs. He was two inches taller and slightly wider than Gorgoth, who himself was regarded as very large for an Orc. A pair of black war braids hung loosely to his lower back, and his face was similar to the younger Orcs; the angular lines, the square jaw, the determined set to his features. Many had commented over the years of the similarity between father and son. Upon hearing the warrior-shaman's approach, his father stopped his study of the flames and turned to regard his son.

Lord Gornakh gro-Nagorm, younger brother to King Gortwog, Lord of Wrothgaria, known to many as the Iron Fist of Orsinium and the Bloody Reaver, folded his arms and silently studied his son. The warrior-shaman stopped three paces in front of his father and studied him in turn, making sure Blood King was within easy reach. A battleaxe and long mace – which was the size of Blood King, making it effectively a light warhammer – were strapped to the larger Orc's back, but the warlord was making no move towards them. A good sign. Seeing his father again after so many months brought conflicting emotions up to the surface, threatening to boil over, but Gorgoth ruthlessly quashed them. This would be no time to show weakness.

His father finally spoke. "I hear you've been making a name for yourself," he rumbled, his voice as deep and powerful as the iron mines of the Wrothgarians.

"They call me their hero. The Hero of Kvatch." Gorgoth shook his head. "The Emperor of Tamriel appears to think that the Nine have chosen me to be their champion to defeat Dagon." He raised a hand to preclude Gornakh's laughter. "It might be true, it might not be. But I swore an oath to that Emperor to return within ten days, reinforcements or no reinforcements." His eyes narrowed. "I did not come here to be delayed by you."

The warlord's face twisted into a grimace. "You've been gone for months," he growled. "Is a father not allowed to see his son when he returns home after so long?"

"There will soon be a time when you will regret seeing my face. I assume you know of the trick Grat gro-Yarzol used to escape?" The slight stiffening of his father's features told him all he needed to know. "I found him in Chorrol, of all places. He took two days and two nights to die. I never stopped." The murderer's unceasing agony was a pleasant memory to him.

"So you've killed all six," muttered Gornakh, exhaling slowly. "Good. They deserved it. She was the mother of my only son. She didn't deserve to die like that."

"Don't pretend you cared about my mother," growled Gorgoth, stepping closer. "You sent those thugs to take me from her. Do you really think they'd have stopped at a simple abduction?" He shook his head. "It might as well have been you that raped and tortured her to death in front of me."

"That again?" The warlord sighed and turned his back, walking over to some of the stained banners lining the far wall and examining them. "I see you're still-"

"Don't deny it," interrupted the warrior-shaman, his voice cold and quiet. "A few years ago, my aunt – her sister – told me how I was born." His eyes bored into the back of his father's skull. "My mother had run out of the herbal tea she normally drank to prevent pregnancy, and it would be some time before she could get some more. She wasn't willing to provide her services, yet... you forced yourself on her anyway." He felt his mouth twisting into an involuntary snarl.

"I paid her double," replied Gornakh with a casual air that made anger flare within Gorgoth until he forced it down. "Besides, it's a good thing I had, or the Nine wouldn't have their Hero." He turned, a smirk plastered across his face. "You have a lot to thank me for, son. Think about it."

"_Thank _you?" It took an effort for Gorgoth to restrain himself. Now would not be the time for petty, useless, futile attacks that accomplished nothing. He had learnt that before he'd left his teenage years. "You tore me from my mother when I was ten. You attempted to make me your minion until the shamans came for me. And even then you restricted-"

"I made you what you are!" barked Gornakh, whirling and thrusting a finger in his son's direction. "Deep down, you know it, but because you hate me so much, you won't admit it. That hatred is one of the few weaknesses you have." The warlord spat. "You _know_ that growing up as the child of a prostitute in a shithole in Orsinium wouldn't have prepared you for what you face right now. You wouldn't be the force you are now. _I_ gave you that. _I_ made sure you had training, _I_ made sure you saw the worst that life could throw at you, _I_ made sure you matured into a fearsome warrior. It was _me_ who forged the Hero of Kvatch, Gorgoth, and don't you forget it!" The Orc bared his teeth in a furious snarl. "You might hate me, Gorgoth, but it was the life I gave you that made you strong. When you cast me aside that day-" his eyes twitched towards Blood King "- I knew that you could face anything. And so it would seem Tamriel has much to thank me for."

The warrior-shaman glared at his father, his eyes deep yellow pits of frozen fire. His thoughts turned to the years he'd spent in this palace, the years of harsh, hard training under his father's teachers. Relentless physical and martial training had moulded him into a powerful warrior, and academic teachings had ensured that he was learned, well able to rule his own land. Would he have got the same education under his mother? The answer came back, the same as it always had been: No. His father was right, but that took none of the hatred out of Gorgoth's gaze. "You didn't have to kill her," he growled.

Gornakh snorted. "You were an unwanted bastard, Gorgoth, but she loved you. Even I saw that. She would die to keep you. It had to happen." He turned and started pacing from one end of the room to another. "And even if it hadn't, you were best away from her. Losing her made you strong. You know _that_ as well."

The younger Orc bit back a furious response. Now would be the worst time to shed his stoic demeanour; behind his apparent casual air, he knew that his father would be watching him for any weakness. And, as he always had been, Gornakh was right once again. "Yes, father," admitted Gorgoth through gritted teeth. "You made me who I am today. And you know that will be your downfall, because you know I will always hate you."

"I know you will... and for what?" The warlord spread his arms. "A father wanting the best for his son?" The Orc shook his head. "Admit it, Gorgoth. You would have done the same thing."

His son was silent for a few moments. "No," he finally muttered. "I wouldn't have fathered a bastard with some random prostitute in the first place. I'd have done the proper thing."

"Ah, yes, that Breton you raped..." Gornakh smirked. "That was different. You snapped the neck of a half-Orc, half-Breton bastard that would have been good for nothing. Yes, you did the right thing there. But you... no, you were a strong young Orc. I could tell you'd be great one day."

"And this strong young Orc will kill you one day." The warrior-shaman reached down to his belt, opened his large enchanted belt bag and felt around inside. "Ironic. You view me as your greatest achievement, yet I will be your downfall."

"Then when I die, I can die in the knowledge that I have done my duty to Orsinium," grated Gornakh, folding his arms. "You finally found the courage to destroy your ring, I take it?" Gorgoth nodded. "Then nothing of the title I tried to give you remains. I suspected that would happen..."

"Everything coming from your hand is poison, father. Burzukh never learnt that." The warrior-shaman removed Burzukh gro-Ghash's magically preserved head from the bag and threw it down at his father's feet. "I told you once that I would bring you back his head. It took longer than I thought, but I have done my duty." He moved closer to his father. "The gold you gave him has been spent wisely."

"I knew he would fail. I just didn't want you plagued by any more unfinished business." Gornakh's sly wink betrayed the dark, devious mind that lay behind his brutal exterior. He prodded Burzukh's head with the toe of his boot then ignored it. "Now. You say you have to be back in Bruma within ten days with reinforcements. I'm no fool, Gorgoth, I won't delay you." He stepped closer, his eyes meeting his son's. "When I next see you again, you will have defeated Dagon and so will be free to... finish your business." A smirk plucked at his mouth. "I hear the Lord of Manruga has died in battle with no heir worthy of inheritance. The King holds his lands now, but he'll want to find another lord soon enough." He chuckled. "When we meet again, Gorgoth, I suspect we'll be equals, so you can get vengeance for your mother in the proper place rather than a brawl in the corridors like it was last time."

"If I was trying to kill you then, you'd already be dead," responded Gorgoth, his gaze reminiscent of cold steel. "But you deserve a good death. For what you've done for Orsinium, you deserve to die with honour." He strode past his father, heading towards the door before pausing with his hand on the handle, looking back, giving the barest of respectful nods. "Lord Gornakh." He wrenched the door open and walked out without waiting for a response.

The corridor outside was empty save for Gulak, who was casually leaning on the wall opposite the door with a carefully neutral expression on his face. Gorgoth quickly chose a direction and walked swiftly away from his father's chambers, keeping his face as unreadable as always. Inside, he was ruthlessly crushing the swirling emotions that had threatened to break through; Lord Gornakh gro-Nagorm and his fate would wait until after the Oblivion Crisis was over. The fate of Tamriel demanded his attention more than vengeance for his mother. Steeling himself, the warrior-shaman turned a corner and started off towards the throne room.

* * *

Messenger duty was not something that Callia generally liked; hardly surprising, given the outcome of her last such assignment. However, delivering a message to General Adamus Phillida was unlikely to leave her bleeding to death with an arrow in her chest, and it was an excuse to temporarily escape the freezing northern winter, so she had offered few complaints when Grandmaster Steffan had assigned the duty to her. Then she had realised that she needed a new horse, her previous one having been killed in Azani Blackheart's ambush on her last messenger duty. Given that most other horses in the Temple stables were already taken, she had a choice of either buying one or taking Gorgoth's.

Taking Baluk was logical; the warrior-shaman would be returning from Orsinium with a new horse anyway, and she was far more suited to the Cheydinhal black than he had ever been; the horse had been bred for speed rather than strength and stamina. Once Callia had got past her initial reluctance to ride the horse of a mer she hated, the sheer exhilaration of traversing Cyrodiil at extreme speeds had planted a firm smile on her face. She'd left the mare at the Chestnut Handy Stables with the finest stall and the best hay she could afford; she'd deserved it after having to haul that overweight, heavily-armoured Orc around Cyrodiil for however long he'd had her.

The sky was grim and bleak as the Knight Sister made her way towards Phillida's residence in the garrison at the Imperial City Prison, with clouds from horizon to horizon. In the far distance to the west, she could just make out a red tint on the horizon that signified an Oblivion Gate. The Crisis was getting worse; on her journey down, she had almost been unhorsed by a pair of roaming clannfear unexpectedly leaping out of the bushes by the side of the road. If Daedra were freely roaming the province, then the war had to be ended, and soon: already the Imperial City was filling up with refugees from outlying farms and settlements, and food prices were starting to soar.

Shaking her head, the Breton put domestic matters out of her mind and focused on the task at hand. The guardsman at the entrance to the prison had told her that Phillida had his office in the second barracks from the left, so she made her way over there, removing her helmet and releasing her hair to flow down to her shoulder blades. Martin's message to the General was secured firmly in her belt bag, and he had made it clear to her that it was of great importance; without an experienced general to lead them, their forces might not win the decisive battle that was looming on the horizon.

An Imperial in the armour of a legionnaire was standing in front of the door to the General's barracks, spear leaning against the wall within easy reach, his longsword prominent on his hip. Behind his helmet, his cold brown eyes studied her without any emotion. Those eyes and his posture – along with his armour, which had a few battle scars that the armourer clearly hadn't been able to erase – suggested that this man had been bloodied in battle, and recently. It was good to see that General Phillida didn't put entrust his protection to novices. "State your business, Blade," he grunted as she approached, one hand moving to the hilt of his longsword in a show of open hostility.

Resisting the impulse to raise a questioning eyebrow, Callia merely returned his gaze levelly. "I'm here to deliver a message from Emperor Martin Septim to General Adamus Phillida," she replied, noting how his eyebrows twitched upon hearing the name of the Emperor.

He stared at her for a few seconds before turning to beckon another legionnaire over, ordering the Imperial to take his place. "Follow me," he muttered to Callia, jerking his head towards the doorway before pushing it open and striding through. Barely catching the heavy oak door before it hit her in the face, the Knight Sister frowned briefly before following him down the dark corridor, blinking rapidly to help her eyes to adjust.

Instead of a barracks, the building in fact appeared to be some kind of administrative building, with doors to small, paper-strewn offices lining the corridor. Only one door had a guard outside, however, and it was that one that the legionnaire led her to, leaning forward for a whispered conversation with the guard. Callia leaned on the opposite wall and waited with arms folded, noting that this other legionnaire also had less-than-pristine armour as well as a notch in his shield. To the untrained eye, there would be nothing to distinguish them from the hundreds of thousands of legionaries currently serving in the field legions, but the Breton could tell that these two, at least, were veterans of the Oblivion Crisis. Even if they hadn't been through a Gate, they had at least fought Daedra.

After a short discussion, the legionnaire who'd been guarding the office door nodded and entered while the other leaned on the wall beside it, relaxing as much as he could with a heavy steel shield strapped to his left arm. His gaze, however, never left the Knight Sister, and now there was definitely tangible dislike in those eyes. As the silence stretched out, the Breton finally ended it. "Do you have a problem?" she asked, her voice icy.

The Imperial grimaced before removing his helmet, revealing brown hair cropped short in the standard military fashion and a hard, bluff face marked by the lines left by near-constant wearing of a helmet. "Yes, I do, in fact," he growled. "If you Blades had actually done your job properly and kept Emperor Uriel alive, we wouldn't be in this fucking war." He pursed his lips as if to spit at her feet, then apparently thought better of it and contented himself with another hard stare. "We went to Fort Sutch with over three hundred men," he continued, his voice dropping. "And now what's left? About eighty, most of them crippled or scarred for life. We've done our duty, Blade, many times over. Why couldn't you do yours?"

Shock initially paralysed Callia. She'd heard about rumours of animosity towards the Blades in the Legions, of course, but she'd had no idea that it had run _this_ deep. As she was struggling to find some response, the legionnaire spoke up again. "Aren't you lot meant to be his eyes and ears as well as his bodyguards? Even if you _did_ learn anything about the plot against him and his sons, you clearly didn't do enough! _Why not_?"

Callia desperately tried to form some kind of response, but under that furious stare an embarrassed flush began to creep up her cheeks. Her planned furious retort died on her tongue as she realised that what the legionnaire was saying actually had some element of truth to it; the Blades might have done the best they could, the Blades might have fought and died to protect the Emperor and his sons, but in the end, the Blades had _failed_. Pride prevented her from admitting that to his face, of course, so she angrily took a step in his direction. "You think the Blades have bled any less than you?" she snarled. "Yes, you've had losses: so have we. We might have made a mistake, but we paid for it in blood many times over. We-" The rest of her response was cut off by the door to the office swinging open. Stepping back, the Breton hastily stood straight and attempted to regain her composure.

"If you're done screaming, the General will see you now," the guard told her, holding the door open. Tossing her head and pointedly not looking at the other legionnaire, the Knight Sister walked into the office. The guard shut it behind them before taking up a position in the corner of the small room.

The office was small and compact, a tiny barred window illuminating a large desk that took up most of the available space. It was covered in neat, orderly piles of paperwork, but it was the man sitting behind the desk in the only chair who Callia had come to see. General Adamus Phillida was doubtlessly an old man, with deep lines criss-crossing his face and a head devoid of any hair, but his back was straight and his blue eyes were as sharp as any man's. He seemed completely comfortable in the enamelled plate armour that his station provided, and his purple-plumed helmet - along with several swords of varying length – was within easy reach. His expression was carefully neutral as he gave the Knight Sister an analytical glance, looking her up and down as she saluted. "You say you have a message for me?" he asked, his voice gruff and gravelly.

"I do, General," responded Callia stiffly, taking the sealed message from her belt bag and holding it out. The old Imperial leaned forward and took it, giving the seal a quick glance before breaking it with his thumbing and unrolling the small scroll. His face gave nothing away as he scanned the text. The Knight Sister didn't know exactly what was written, of course, but nearly everyone in Cloud Ruler Temple knew that the old, experienced campaigner was being invited by Martin to lead the forces of Tamriel into one last battle before his imminent retirement.

"He'll expect a reply, I imagine," remarked Phillida as he finished reading, placing the scroll on his desk and letting it roll up. He sat there considering for a few seconds, eyes gazing out into space. The Blade didn't reply, giving the old man time to think. Strictly speaking, there was nothing tying him to the Imperial City; he could ride out to inspect or take personal control of any of his legions at any time as long as he was the Commander of the Imperial Legion. Ocato might have already refused help to Bruma on some pretext or another – politicians were good at that – but Phillida was his own man, able to make almost all of his own decisions regarding military matters. And he was no fool, either; he _had_ to see that the biggest threat that Tamriel had ever faced was fast approaching, and he _had_ to see that his services were required. As the silence dragged on, Callia's fingernails curled and dug into her skin. She barely stopped herself from biting her lip in a mixture of nervousness and impatience.

Eventually, Phillida grabbed a blank piece of parchment, dipped a quill into his inkpot, and started writing. The Knight Sister forced herself not to look at what he was writing. A messenger who looked at the messages she was carrying wasn't a very good messenger. Instead, she waited in impatient silence, listening to the scratching of the General's quill and conscious of the guard's eyes boring into the back of her head. After a few minutes, the Imperial straightened and reached for a stick of red sealing wax, heating one end over a candle before pouring a glob of boiling wax onto the parchment and pressing his signet ring into the centre of it. Letting the wax cool for a few seconds, the General folded the letter into four and pressed another seal to ensure the security of the message.

"Your Emperor will get his help," he told her, holding out the message. Thankful for the satisfaction of her curiosity, Callia took it and secured it in her belt bag. "I will gather what men, horses and equipment I need before setting off, but expect me at Bruma in four days, if the roads are still safe." The General grimaced and stood, this action straightened the backs of both other soldiers in the room. "It's evident to all how much the..." he trailed off, frowning, as the door swung open. "Varius, I-" The door closed again. Nothing had entered the office, not even a breath of wind. Except...

"_Down_!" screamed Callia, throwing herself across the table at Phillida as she realised exactly what the barely-visible shimmering in the air was. The table overturned, showering the two of them with parchment as they hit the floor, but there was a hiss of frustration as a throwing knife embedded itself in the far wall, having flown through empty air where the General's throat had been second's previously.

"_Assassin_!" roared the legionnaire in a voice loud enough to wake the entire prison, his sword rasping from his scabbard as he stepped forward, his eyes desperately trying to find something to kill. His throat was promptly slashed open by an enemy he'd never even seen, blood splattering the walls as he staggered back, sword dropping from his hand as he vainly attempted to stem the flow from his severed jugular vein. He had, at least, bought enough time for Callia to regain her feet. Realising that her long katana would be less useful in the tight confines of the office, she snatched her dagger from its sheath and planted herself between the shimmering and the General, slowly rising to his feet with a short infantry sword in hand.

"I should have known the Brotherhood would make another attempt soon enough," growled Phillida from behind her as the legionnaire from outside burst into the room, still without his helmet but with his sword in hand. "Fortunately, after last time, I'm ready for tricks of this kind..." In the corner of her eye, Callia saw the old Imperial tap his signet ring twice.

A bright purple flash briefly filled the room, forcing the Knight Sister to blink at the painful afterimage. But whatever enchantment the General had in his ring had worked; the assassin in front of them was now visible. He was an Argonian dressed entirely in leather as black as midnight, a snarl making his red-scaled reptilian face seem all the more threatening. He was crouching in a combat stance, twin daggers with blades even darker than his armour clutched in his fists. "Do not let those blades cut you," warned Phillida, moving to stand beside Callia, waving for his legionnaire to circle around to the assassin's flank. "We'll outnumber him soon. Don't do anyth-"

The General was cut off as the Argonian twisted, flowing around the room almost too quick for their eyes to follow. He slammed his foot into the legionnaire's knee and sent a dagger plunging down towards his unprotected face, but Callia got there first, barging him away, attempting to crush him into the wall using the weight of her plate armour. The lizard tore free and pushed her away, sending her crashing to the floor as she slipped in the blood pooling around the other legionnaire, whose death rattle was sounding in his throat.

Pounding feet in the hallway did not deter the assassin, who leapt up onto the desk and launched himself at Phillida. The old soldier was ready, bracing himself and not moving until the last second, spinning to the side and delivering a kick to the Argonian's ribs. Spinning with unbelievable agility, the lizard landed on both feet and jumped upwards, both daggers flashing towards to General's face. Raising one shoulder, the Imperial deflected one off his pauldron and blocked the other with his shortsword, a deft riposte that sent the dagger flying from the assassin's hand.

As the door flew open to show several soldiers attempting to enter without putting the general's life at risk, the legionnaire – _Varius_? - pushed past Callia and threw his shield at the Argonian, putting him off balance and allowing the legionnaire to slash downwards at him, attempting to open him from throat to groin. The assassin simply sidestepped and cut Varius's face open with one deft move, already turning away as the Imperial feel back, screaming in agony as the dagger's enchantment started working.

Growling in frustration – the Emperor's chosen commander wasn't about to get cut down by the Dark Brotherhood while she looked on – the Knight Sister stepped forward and stabbed upwards at the Argonian with all the power she could muster while he was preoccupied with Phillida's assault. He somehow twisted to avoid her attack and grabbed her arm, using her as leverage to put his entire body's strength into a powerful thrust aimed at her armpit. The thin, dark blade hit her plate armour awkwardly and snapped off at the hilt.

The lizard instantly reached for another dagger, but it was too late; he stumbled forward, the crimson point of Phillida's sword poking through the front of his chest. "Not this time," whispered the General in his would-be assassin's ear as he withdrew his blade, shoving the dying Argonian to the bloodstained, paper-strewn floor of his office. Callia took a deep, relieved breath and realised that the entire encounter had taken under half a minute.

"That's the third time-" the General cut off abruptly as he knelt beside Varius, who had seized a potion from one of the soldiers and downed it in two gulps. A sharp intake of breath told the Knight Sister that it was bad; realising that she had come all too close to being impaled on one of those daggers, she knelt beside Phillida to take a closer look. She winced. The would would be ugly enough without the enchantment: it stretched from his left temple to the edge of his mouth, barely missing his eye, a deep gouge that would disfigure him forever. But it could have been healed easily if it didn't seem to be in an advanced stage of festering; the area around the wound had already gone black, with pus mixing with the dark blood. Despite not liking the Imperial, Callia felt a pang of sympathy; what had once been a marginally attractive face was now ruined beyond repair.

"You need a healer," Phillida was saying as he motioned for Callia and the soldiers in the room to help Varius to his feet. "Potions might save your life, but they won't save your face. Hurry up." Varius growled something unintelligible but let himself be hauled to his feet, his movements weak and uncoordinated. As two of the legionnaires helped him from the room, the General sighed and put his hand on Callia's shoulder.

"Every time the Brotherhood has come for me, they've taken the lives of my soldiers," he grunted, barely-restrained rage making his voice quiver. "And people wonder why I hate them so much." The old Imperial snarled and directed a kick at the cooling body of the Argonian assassin.

The Breton sighed. "I'm sorry about your men, General," she told him, the compassion in her voice genuine. After all, she knew exactly what it felt like to unexpectedly lose comrades. "But I have to be getting back to the Emperor..."

"Yes, yes," muttered Phillida distractedly. "My thoughts haven't changed. I'll be with you in about four days." Callia nodded respectfully before withdrawing, leaving him alone with the bodies.

The hallway was now crammed with soldiers, most giving her suspicious stares as she made her way out. She ignored them and squeezed out through the open door, wincing as she trod in the streaks of blood and pus that Varius must have left behind. Feeling the parchment through the leather of her belt bag, she knew she should feel satisfied with the near-completion of her mission, but the attack – not to mention what Varius had said beforehand – had left her in a less-than-cheerful mood. The light rain that had started when she was in Phillida's office seemed somewhat fitting.

Putting her helmet back on, Callia sighed and turned towards the massive gates that led back to the city. It was late afternoon, too late to reach any further than Weye, and Baluk deserved a good night's rest. She would do the same; a reply wasn't as urgent as the initial message now that she knew the basic content, and she hadn't allowed herself much rest on the ride down. Ignoring the rain dripping from her nose guard, she signalled to the guardsman to open the gate and stepped out onto the causeway that linked Prison and City. Thunder rumbled in the distance; a storm was coming. _A deadlier storm is already upon us_, thought Callia to herself as she marched along the bridge, hand unconsciously gripping the hilt of her katana.

* * *

The throne room of the Palace of Orsinium was a massive, cavernous room, long and wide with enough space to hold a thousand Orcish warriors with room to fight. Leading to the courtyard was the main door, its wood reinforced with bands of iron thicker than most walls. Only the four gates of the Iron Walls were thicker. The system of chains and pulleys used to open it were rarely used, however; to save time, most visitors to the King – even on official business – used one of the numerous side doors.

It was from one of these side doors that Gorgoth had stepped. Nodding to the guard, he paused and looked around the throne room, taking in the majesty of it. Vast stone pillars supported the stone ceiling, which was engraved with numerous depictions of glorious battles in the history of the Orcs. In the shadows behind the pillars were numerous side doors and servant's entrances, but the centre of the hall led only to the throne at the end. Statues of Orcish heroes were evident between some of the pillars; there was Makor gro-Dumag, the mighty warrior who had slain Gaiden Shinji in single combat; Khargol gro-Umag, who had forged and led an independent Orcish state in the Dragontail mountains for several decades; Durz gro-Gurakh, the shaman-armourer who had forged Blood King; Lorga gra-Bashuk, the legendary leader of her feared mercenary band that had decided the victors of several Breton wars; Grommok gro-Brag, who had fought for several days and nights to secure the safety of his tribe. There were more, their faces staring down at those who would approach the King of Orsinium. Gorgoth found himself wondering if he would ever join them before shaking his head and stepping out of the shadows, looking towards the throne.

The throne was simple yet magnificent; made of stone and steel, it would not be comfortable for any but an armoured Orc to sit upon. Shaped to host a large body clad in chainmail and furs, the seat was tall and wide, with steel spikes jutting outwards at various angles to make it appear more intimidating. It was raised up on a high stone dais with ten wide steps from the floor to the throne, giving the King a commanding position. The wall behind was covered in an enormous tapestry showing various stages of the nation of Orsinium.

However, it was not the throne that Gorgoth had come to see; it was the Orc sitting in it. King Gortwog gro-Nagorm, King and Warlord of Orsinium, known as The Sword of Trinimac and numerous other titles, looked as threatening and imposing as his titles suggested. He was not as massive as his brother Gornakh, but he was still tall and wide for an Orc; his face was as hard and strong as the nation he had built, and his war braids – which had never been cut – would fall to his knees when standing. The King was wearing heavy black chainmail of the kind favoured by many Orcs, but nothing was common about his attire. His fine leather belt was woven with heavy gold, his steel boots were worked with even more gold, and the pins holding his heavy bear-fur cloak in place were silver. Gems and precious metals gleamed on rings worn over his leather gauntlets – some were enchanted – and around his neck was a heavy gold chain studded with rubies. The crown on his head was a broad steel circlet worked with yet more gold and studded with onyx, topped with spikes of steel sharp enough to cut. Gortwog gro-Nagorm looked every inch a king.

He had not noticed his approaching nephew; instead, he was leaning on the throne's arm, half-turned and talking to one of his Bloodguard. The six Orcs he was choosing to guard him today – he had a total of twelve in his Bloodguard – were arrayed behind the throne in full battle armour, complete with enough weaponry to equip a sizeable detachment of Imperial Legionnaires. Of all the Bloodguards of the Orcish Lords, the King's were the finest, numbered among the best mortal warriors in the known world. Should any enemy attempt to slay the King of Orsinium, they would have to hack their way through twelve blood-sworn guards before facing Gortwog himself.

As Gorgoth approached, the sound of his boots ringing on the stone floor brought the King's head around. The first expression visible on that bluff face was one of curiosity, but as his eyes narrowed, it abruptly turned to delight as he surged to his feet. "Gorgoth!" he boomed, his deep, regal voice filling the hall as he swept down the dais, heavy cloak trailing through the air behind him.

The warrior-shaman knelt before the King could reach him, left knee pressed against the floor, his right fist resting down beside his right foot, his left fist clenched over his heart. "My king," he greeted formally, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Gortwog strode rapidly over to his kneeling subject, the stone quaking slightly at his approach. "Rise," he commanded gruffly, a welcoming smile splitting his face. Gorgoth slowly obeyed, rising to straighten his back and look his king directly in the eye. The two were of a height, but the warlord's sheer presence and regal aura made him appear even bigger. He wasted no time in throwing his arms around his nephew, pressing their bodies together. The warrior-shaman returned the embrace warmly, the long-dormant tug of affection felt deep in his chest; he genuinely loved Gortwog, both as a king and an Orc. "It's good to see you again, Gorgoth," muttered the king in his ear.

"And you, my king," responded the warrior-shaman as they drew apart, his voice slightly less formal than before. "But we must waste no time. I have important business to discuss."

"Yes, so I have heard," responded Gortwog, stepping back and motioning to his Bloodguard. Two of their number promptly walked out of the throne room to attend to duties elsewhere, while the other four moved from behind the throne to stand in a loose semi-circle behind the King. "We can talk in complete privacy in my chambers. On the way there, you can explain to me what exactly you have been doing in Cyrodiil, Hero of Kvatch." A smirk plucked at the warlord's mouth as he turned to lead the group through a side door, starting towards his quarters deeper in the Palace.

On the way, Gorgoth told him everything; it was the most he had talked for as long as he could remember, and he left nothing out. King Gortwog already knew more than anyone about the life and experiences of his nephew, and the warrior-shaman trusted him absolutely despite his heretical religious beliefs. By the time they reached the door to the King's extensive quarters, almost all of his tale had been told; Gortwog had listened in silence for the most part, interrupting only for short, curious questions, his face thoughtful. The warrior-shaman finished telling him how Martin had given him leave to return home and took a breath, stopping in front of the heavy oak door. "So now you know why I'm here," he finished.

The King nodded and motioned to his Bloodguard. Three of them took up guarding positions in the corridor, while the Captain of the King's Bloodguard – an old Orc named Kharag gro-Kurz, the father of Gulak gro-Kharag – preceded them into the room to make sure there was no assassin lying in wait. It was highly unlikely that any assassin would ever penetrate this far into the Palace, but the death of the King on their watch would bring disgrace and dishonour to his Bloodguard; they weren't prone to taking unnecessary risks. Gortwog followed his bodyguard in, with Gorgoth entering close behind, nudging the door shut behind him.

In contrast to his brother's quarters, the outer chamber of Gortwog's residence was lavish by Orc standards; a thick carpet from Sentinel covered the floor, and the walls were dominated by tapestries and murals. Several high-backed chairs were arranged around a long fireplace, and lamps hanging from the ceiling augmented the light provided by the flickering flames. The King sank into the largest of the chairs and motioned for his nephew and his Bloodguard Captain to join him. "Quite a tale," remarked Kharag as he slowly sat down; the chairs were build for heavy Orcs, but any mer wearing triple-layered battle armour soon learnt not to drop into any chair with reckless abandon. "I didn't think we'd seen the last of you."

"You know I'm hard to kill." Kharag knew better than most; widely recognised as the best warrior in Orsinium, he had occasionally passed down a few fighting lessons to his lord's nephew, but the ageing warrior – he was well over a hundred years old – had only ever tested him in a mock duel once, two years ago. The Bloodguard had won, but not easily; his plate armour was nearly as old and scarred as he was, and at least three of the scars criss-crossing the breastplate had been left by Gorgoth.

"Indeed," agreed Gortwog. "And we will not make an oathbreaker of you; you'll return to Cloud Ruler Temple with all the Orcs you want. But first there is another matter to clear up." He leaned forward in his chair, his chainmail clinking slightly as he fixed his nephew with a penetrating gaze. "You know what I mean." As ever, the King was straight to the point.

Gorgoth knew. "My father has many failings, but he made sure I know how to lead," he rumbled. "He tried to force it upon me once, but..."

"And the Fighter's Guild is very thankful for the land you gave them. Their chapter here is thriving." The King smirked. "They might even build a statue of you when they learn you're now the regional Guildmaster in Cyrodiil."

"You know me, my king," said the warrior-shaman, his voice increasing in intensity. "You know my qualities, my code of honour. You know I was always meant to be a Lord of Orsinium."

"And so you shall be," responded Gortwog, standing. Gorgoth quickly emulated him. "Did my brother tell you that Manruga lost its lord recently? He fell to a Daedric spear, and his son was too weak to rule; he was torn apart by those he might have ruled." He smiled. "The time is now right, Gorgoth." Manruga was one of the largest fiefdoms of the Orcish nation; lying in the north of Orsinium, it bordered the south edge of Lake Manruga, encompassing several ranges of the Wrothgarians, craggy valleys and flowing rivers. A powerful country to have under his control. Gorgoth felt a smile attempting to make itself known. "Your taking control can come later; you are occupied for now, of course. But you will lead Orcs back to Cloud Ruler Temple not as a mere warrior-shaman, but as Lord Gorgoth gro-Kharz of Manruga."

The warrior-shaman knelt, bowing his head. "I have already sworn fealty to you," he grunted, keeping his excitement out of his voice. "Should I do it again?"

"No," replied the king, laying a gauntleted hand on his nephew's head. "Gorgoth gro-Kharz, I grant to you the Orcish province of Manruga. You will lead your people in war and in peace. You will protect them with your life and your honour, with your blood and your steel. You will rule your province with your own hand, but you will enforce the King's laws and answer to the King's call in times of need." His hand moved to grip Gorgoth's right shoulder. "Rise now as a Lord of Orsinium."

Lord Gorgoth gro-Kharz rose to his feet, exhaling slowly. Finally, the desire that had driven him for so long throughout his youth had been fulfilled. There was a curious sensation in his chest; some might have called it joy, but that emotion was so alien to him that he couldn't be sure. "It is an honour to serve you and Orsinium, and to lead my people," he told his king. "I will _not_ fail the Orcs."

"I know," replied Gortwog, smiling. "Your father was right; you will go far. One day, I have no doubt that there will be statues of you all over Orsinium, and not just in the Fighter's Guild chapter." He chuckled.

"If I succeed at Bruma," said Gorgoth, reminding them both of important matters at hand.

The King nodded and gestured for his newest lord to take a seat as he eased himself back down into his own chair. "If you succeed," he agreed, his voice implying that he had no doubt of his nephew's success. "You can choose your banner and sigil and other accessories later. I can take care of the formalities with the clan leaders in Manruga. For now, you came here for warriors." He rubbed his chin. "The armies of Manruga are largely mobilised, but you can hardly reach Bruma within ten days with ten thousand Orcs with you..."

"Used correctly, our heavy cavalry will sweep aside a Daedric army," put in Kharag. "I've seen it myself down on the plains when we closed the Great Gates."

"I cannot take over a thousand," responded Gorgoth. "We will have to take our own supplies ourselves and on packhorses. Orc and horse have to reach Bruma well-fed and with the strength to fight." He considered for a few seconds. "Five hundred would be best, I think. Heavy cavalry with all their armour and the necessary supplies could reach Bruma in time if we pushed hard across Skyrim."

"I'll make the necessary arrangements," declared Kharag, standing. "I'll have them ready to move by tomorrow morning at the latest." He inclined his head towards his king before striding for the door.

King Gortwog stood and made his way over to the fire as his Bloodguard Captain closed the door behind him. "Your duty will call you away, Gorgoth, but I know you'll return. You are a warrior-shaman, a Lord of Orsinium, and a Hero to boot. What power in this world could stand against you and Blood King?" He shook his head without turning around. "No, don't answer that. I'm sure you could come up with quite a list. But you _will_ return. And when you do..." The King sighed, abruptly seeming older. The grey streaks in his black war braids seemed more prominent, his back slightly bent. "I might not agree with him on many accounts, but he _is_ my brother. I will not stop you and your desire for vengeance, but..." The warrior paused for several long moments. "He has served Orsinium well. There are few who can emulate his accomplishments. You know it."

The warrior-shaman stood, his gaze boring into the back of his king's head. "I know it," he agreed. "But were you in my place, you would be planning exactly the same thing." He sighed. "I was an unwanted, inconvenient bastard born to a prostitute, yet my mother refused to do anything but love me with her entire heart. How can I not avenge her?" His hands clenched into fists. "And now that this unwanted, inconvenient bastard is now the equal of his father, I can finally give her complete justice."

The King of Orsinium turned to meet his nephew's iron-hard gaze. "You can," he agreed. "But for now, we have much to discuss." The age lifted from him as quickly as it had come. "Much has changed in your absence. It will be good to have you back..."

* * *

**A/N: Note that all the Orcs in this chapter are speaking Orcish, not common Cyrodilic; naturally, there would be no point in writing all their speech in Orcish because a) I can't invent a language and b) I'd have to translate it anyway. But anyhow, you've finally met Gorgoth's father... let me know your thoughts by leaving a review, which will always be important to me.**

**And I'll do my best to write the next chapter relatively quickly... ten weeks isn't good enough, and you deserve better. Leave me a review and I'll do my utmost to repay you by stopping at nothing to shatter the writer's block that afflicts me so often...**


	46. Shadows and Discontent

**A/N: Yes, once again, it's been too long. Seven and a half weeks, no matter how good the end result is, can only be described as 'too long' unless I have a very good excuse, and all I can offer is crippling writer's block. At least I seem to be past that, having written 4000 words in the last two days, but I'll still offer apologies for the delay. Anyhow, thanks to all those who reviewed:**

**Underpaid Critic: I think you can now; at least that's one improvement they've made, though I still prefer the old system. Anyhow, I do make sure never to rush, but I can't help feeling bad that my own inadequacies are keeping my loyal readers waiting. As for real fiction... I do intend to write a book at some point in my life. I have half-formed ideas right now, nothing solid; it's going to be hard to think up a detailed plot, a detailed world, etc. And one thing is for certain; it'll come AFTER I've finished my planned projects here. I've said I'll do a DB fic, so I'll do a DB fic, and after that will be my Skyrim fic, however long that takes. So I'll be here for a while... it's through FF that I discovered this occupation of mine, so I feel I owe it.**

**Bob Reincarnated: Odd; I felt sure I'd replied to you via PM, but my outbox is showing nothing... ah, well. Anyhow, yes, Orcs seem powerful, for two reasons; a) because they ARE powerful (Gorgoth's racial supremacist theories are not unfounded) and b) because we're seeing so many of their prominent individuals, who MUST be powerful to be prominent. If we went to the Summerset Isles, you could be sure that you'd be seeing a lot of powerful Altmer.**

**Cecil Redwing: I didn't; I was looking a a map of High Rock on UESP and saw a lake to the north of where Orsinium would be; I couldn't read the name as the print was so small, but it looked like 'Manruga' to me, so... I went with that.**

**Rokibfd: Well, happy birthday for all those days ago. Good that you didn't invite Malacath. He'd probably do something quite bad. Anyhow, yes, I looked at Gortwog's ingame pictures a while ago, but I don't feel there's anything to explain; much of the change can be put down to the old graphics of the day (And the book featuring him doesn't give much of a description, either), leaving only his clothing and hair to change, which both have simple enough explanations. Besides, Gorgoth only saw Gortwog a few months ago; he's not going to comment on change because there wouldn't be much.**

**Yarp, Gorgoth's father does pose those kind of questions... and yes, Kharz gra-Shagren gave her son her name, given that it was her and her alone who brought him up for the first ten years of his life. Nova Orsinium is not the original Orsinium, for sure... Gortwog's more civilised than that. And it'd be easy to explain away the corrupt mine owner's death as bandits or something... it's not like he murdered a diplomat. But anyhow, yes, I've planned a oneshot to cover Orsinium's downfall in the future...**

**Random Reader: I haven't read the two Elder Scrolls books by Greg Keyes, but I plan to before I write my Orsinium oneshot to get a better understanding of what actually happened; I've got only sparse knowledge, myself. And while I wouldn't mind Bethesda paying me... well, we can all dream. ;)**

**Guest (avik)?: Well, it's no real question to him, not with what his father's done in the past, but he definitely gives it much thought. Though I should note I've never played Warcraft and have utterly no interest in Warcraft fanfiction...**

**Yet another massive author's note, but I don't mind as long as the reviews I'm replying to are good. ;) Speaking of reviews, you can only help me by leaving one. It's simple enough... now, read on.**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-six: Shadows and Discontent**

Snow had fallen in the night, brought down by the brutal north wind. Orsinium lay under a moderately thick blanket of snow which the cold day of winter would not melt. The storm had long since passed on, however, and the home of the Orcs shone white under the light of the rising sun. Conditions for travelling were not perfect, but neither were they bad. Gorgoth grunted and turned from his window, padding across his bedroom to throw open his wardrobe. Overnight, King Gortwog had sent various servants to his house to stock him with clothes fit for his new station, but he ignored them and instead pulled on his usual simple, well-made travel-stained furs. There would be no sense in donning finery for a hard, fast journey across Tamriel.

As he was pulling on his boots, there was a sharp rap on the door. At his invitation, one of his skeletons opened the door and signed that there were three Orcs outside awaiting an audience. Knowing exactly who to expect, the warrior-shaman told it to show them to one of the living rooms. Pulling on a pair of leather gauntlets, he buckled on his sword belt – which at the moment held only the Thornblade and a few potions – before picking up a ring from his bedside table.

It was a signet ring, very similar to the one he had destroyed months ago in Could Ruler Temple. This one, however, had been given by the hand of the King to a deserving new Orcish lord, rather than a casual hand-down from a father to his son. It was a wide gold band, solidly made, with a dark ruby as the gem with an engraving of his sigil – a clenched fist – in the centre. Sliding it onto the ring finger of his right hand, Gorgoth suppressed a smile.

Looking up, he glanced at the new banner hanging over the head of his bed. It was the banner that – alongside the sigil of Orsinium – would lead his forces through High Rock and Skyrim down to Cloud Ruler Temple and the decisive battle of this war. A large gauntleted fist coloured the grey of steel was clenched in the centre of a field of dark red, bordered in the same grey of the fist. Feeling pride swell in his chest, Gorgoth forced the emotion down and turned away. There was business to attend to.

Moving downstairs, the Orc entered the smaller of his two living rooms, nodding to the skeleton who was standing guard outside. Three Orsimer sprang to their feet as he entered, all offering the salute of fist to heart. "Lord Gorgoth," greeted Kharag gro-Kurz, who was – as always – clad in full battle armour. He wasted no words. "These are Gurbol gro-Rugob and Burza gra-Sharz. They lead the contingent of heavy cavalry the King has detached for you."

Gorgoth stared the two cavalrymer in the eyes, analysing their dispositions and abilities. Gurbol was a tall, proud, muscular warrior of Orsinium, straight-backed but very slightly bow-legged, testament to his long years on the back of a horse. A long cavalry mace was strapped to his back and he was wearing full battle armour that was simple in design yet bore the scars of many conflicts. His comrade was shorter and less imposing, but Burza had clearly seen her fair share of combat as well; the battleaxe on her back was pitted from hacking through bone, and her challenging gaze reminded him of someone who would willingly bite through rock to get what they wanted.

Gurbol – the overall commander of the force - stepped forward. "Lord Gorgoth, I can report three hundred and seventy-eight mer and one hundred and twenty-two womer ready to fight under your standard for as long as you deem necessary. Orcs and horses are all well-rested and fully equipped, ready to leave within the hour with supplies on packhorses." His voice was deep and hard, used to giving orders.

"I am not usurping you, Gurbol," Gorgoth told him. "You will command your mer and horses again once this battle is past, but for now you will send them where I point. Do not worry about missing any glory; we will be fighting in the most decisive battle in this war." The seasoned campaigner gave a short nod as though satisfied. "Is there anything else I should know?" Both cavalrymer shook their heads. "Good. Get your Orcs ready to leave. I will meet you outside the East Gate within the hour."

They saluted, bowed their heads slightly, and left. The sound of their boots heading towards the exit – escorted by the skeleton – faded from hearing as Kharag turned in a circle, admiring the various trophies lining the otherwise bare stone walls of the room. Apart from several armchairs, a carpet and a fireplace, they were the only ornament in the room, but many were notable; the head of a frost minotuar, the sword of a bandit lord, a few ragged banners from the Battle of the Bjoulsae Delta and many other mementos from Gorgoth's time as the captain of one of the most respected mercenary groups in Orsinium.

"Good times, they were," sighed Kharag, his face creasing into a nostalgic smile as he gazed at the bloodstained banners. Gorgoth had torn them from the hands of Breton standard-bearers himself. "And it seems there's not going to be any peace for a while yet, at least. Can an old warrior offer you some advice?"

"Of course." Advice from an Orc who had lived over a hundred years as a Bloodguard and killed thousands – finding glory in dozens of battles – was not to be disregarded lightly.

"I can vouch for the ability of Gurbol and Burza, and I can tell you that all five hundred of their Orcs are loyal, brave and dedicated to a fault. You will find no trouble there. But the fact remains that you will be riding hard across ground likely to be scarred by Oblivion." The Bloodguard turned to regard the warlord with a weighing gaze. "I know you're a powerful warrior, Gorgoth, and I know you won't turn aside to close Oblivion Gates or anything foolish. But always remember that the mightiest warrior can be felled from behind."

"That was one of the first lessons I ever learnt, and I have not forgotten it."

"I knew you never would. But as far as I can see, you have no one particularly designated to watch your back." Kharag's stare grew intense. "You know that King Gortwog is a mighty warrior, but I have saved him from backstabs several times. You need a Bloodguard, Lord Gorgoth."

"I have one in mind. But he is in Bruma, and there are no suitable Orcs that I know of within a day's journey from here." The warlord shook his head. "What you are saying is right, but I cannot divert just to get a Bloodguard. But I do not have to." A knowing gleam entered his eyes. "I have three powerful warriors with unquestionable loyalty who can act as my Bloodguard until I reach Bruma."

The older Orc's eyes narrowed. "Who?" he asked. "I can't think of anyone... unless you mean to take your skeletons, but-"

Gorgoth held up a hand. "Their names are Xilinkar, Chaxil and Medraka."

Understanding sparked in the Bloodguard's eyes, and a hearty laugh burst from his throat. "Ah, Gorgoth, for someone without a sense of humour you're certainly humorous sometimes," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Using Dagon's own minions to protect one of his greatest enemies... was there ever anything more ironic?"

"Probably, though I have not heard of it," responded Gorgoth, his face utterly humourless as usual. "We should leave. I still have to retrieve my horse from the Palace stables."

Kharag nodded and fell in beside the warrior-shaman as they left the room, still grinning. "That old beast of yours? He gives everyone but the stablemaster a good kicking if they come within five feet. Probably why no one ever claimed him in your absence."

"Good. He's a fine horse, and he's served me well. I can think of no better steed to carry me towards a Great Gate." They reached his heavy oak front doors. "Return to the King," he told the Bloodguard. "No doubt he will be seeing me off. I know him. I have to settle things here and then move out."

The older warrior place a thick gauntlet-clad hand on his fellow Orc's shoulder. "It's been good seeing you again, Gorgoth," he said, a slight smile touching his eyes. "May your enemies quake in terror, and may your mace be stained with the blood of many."

* * *

In all his life, Saliith had never ventured further north than the Imperial City for more than a few days, and even then he had only endured one Cyrodilic winter before. It had been a mild one; up in the north, the Nords of Bruma were quite at home in this harsher winter, but the Argonian merely found himself wishing that the fire in the Snowdrift Inn was bigger. Even this early in the morning – it was barely past dawn – it was roaring and crackling angrily in the hearth, but the cold-blooded lizard still had to force himself to stop shivering.

Ironically, his young protégés were better suited to the weather than he was. Huzei and Neesha might be relatively thin and scrawny, but they had lived most of their lives in Cyrodiil and had long since adapted to the winters. Even they, however, found themselves edging as close to the fire as they dared every night. Despite his numerous exhortations, the two younger Argonians had declared that he would have to send them back to the Imperial City tied up in sacks to stop them fighting alongside them, and so he had reluctantly agreed to let them sleep beside him in the Great Hall of Cloud Ruler Temple. He and Agronak had even kept up their training.

Now, however, they were impatiently waiting for breakfast after spending a night at the Snowdrift Inn at Aerin's invitation. The Bosmeri ex-gladiator had taken an instant liking to Huzei and Neesha – though she had only recently overcome the common difficulty of telling them apart – and had insisted on trying to teach them how to use the bow in the spare time that she had so much of. It was a source of much hilarity; the Wood Elf was an excellent shot, but one of the worst teachers that Saliith had ever seen.

The Grand Champion shifted his chair an inch closer to the fire and sighed, looking around. The only company they had for the moment were a few drunkards slumped over the tables, four of the Orcs in Gorgoth's service having an animated but rather quiet discussion, and a pair of mercenaries eating breakfast. Most of the rest of the inn's patrons were sleeping upstairs or already out practising, sharpening their skills for the impending battle. There was fighting every day – Oblivion Gates were appearing with regularity – but they were relatively small affairs, taken care of within hours by companies of a few hundred men. Saliith had taken Huzei and Neesha through one yesterday, where they had performed admirably given their ages; it was little wonder that they had risen through the ranks of the Arena so quickly.

To alleviate the boredom, he decided to put his thoughts into words. "Do you remember when we first met?" he asked, his rasping voice stirring them out of lethargy. "You were over-eager fans without a clue as to who I really was. Now..." he chuckled "You've come a long way."

"Well, we had a good teacher," replied Neesha, flashing a grin at him. The young Argonian – at sixteen, barely out of childhood – was leaning back in her chair with her feet up on the table with a carefree expression that was very reminiscent of her new Bosmeri friend.

Her brother – as ever – was more insightful. He was idly twirling a dagger around in the palm of his hand, the leather hilt rasping against his scales occasionally. "You told us once that it was the Hero of Kvatch that put you on the right path." His hand snapped closed, bringing the dagger to a halt. "Well, you put _us_ on the right path, so you're twice as successful as him." He grinned expectantly at his mentor.

Saliith suppressed a grimace; Gorgoth, in fact, had been just as 'successful' as him. He'd never told them about Branwen specifically, merely that he'd just lost a good friend in the Arena. They were happy, idealistic, eager; they deserved what happiness they could find. They didn't need a jaded Grand Champion pouring out his regrets and and grief on them. His wound was his own and there was no reason to tell them about it. They would never go through the same thing; Agronak had made sure of that when he'd put them on the same team.

A loud clattering spared him the discomfort of answering as Ilend strode down the stairs, wearing a thick cloak over his chainmail. The Imperial nodded to them on his way out; he would get breakfast over at the barracks he'd be teaching in. Fortunately, the guardsmen from the expeditionary forces sent by the cities of Cyrodiil were attentive and quick learners; losses from Gates were decreasing as their knowledge and experience grew.

"Seeing him head off makes me feel lazy," rasped Saliith. "At least the sun seems to be out; we can train without risk of breaking every table in the place." He glanced sideways then grinned as he saw Neesha turn over a small hourglass. "I don't even have to ask..."

Only a few grains had fallen by the time a bleary-eyed Aerin appeared from upstairs and slowly made her way over to slump down in a chair opposite the Grand Champion, stifling a yawn with her fist. "Bed started to get cold after Ilend left" was her mumbled explanation. She was wearing a thick brown cloak that covered her from neck to ankle, but the Argonian was willing to bet that she wasn't wearing anything underneath. The Wood Elf had gradually acclimatised to the climate during her stay in Bruma; she still complained about the ever-present cold outside, of course, but at least she no longer felt the need to dress up for an expedition to Skyrim before entering the relatively warm common room.

"Good morning to you as well, Aerin," responded Saliith, inclining his head. "Do you intend to laze around all day or do something constructive? Hard to tell the difference sometimes." He scratched the end of his snout to hide his smirk.

"Fuck you, Twitch-tail." Even though her eyes were still heavily encrusted with sleep, there was the usual sparkle of laughter in them.

The Grand Champion snorted but said nothing. He hated the nickname – his tail most definitely did not twitch, at least not purposefully – but for her he was willing to let it slide. After all, he knew that in her time at the Arena she'd had far worse nicknames attached to her. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and let her slowly come fully into the world of the waking. "Anything much important happening that I should know about?" she asked after a few minutes, rubbing her eyes.

Saliith aimlessly glanced out of one of the windows. "Dagon's sent one of his wake-up calls, but that's nothing unusual." The Oblivion Gate that had opened shortly before dawn had probably been dispatched already. "Nothing to stop you lying around in bed all day thinking horny thoughts."

"I'm not Dralasa," snorted Aerin, folding her arms. "Though she's more likely to-" She was cut off by the inn's door swinging open. A cold gust of wind cut into the room before the doorway was filled by large, heavily-armoured bodies.

"Get some food and beer. You've all earned it." Lurog's deep voice was the same as ever despite the blood splattering his mace and chainmail as he directed the four Orcs he'd taken with him into an Oblivion Gate towards their comrades. Mazoga stood beside him, her face looking even more grim than usual due to the crimson liquid covering half of it. She was ignoring the small slash just under her left ear as she methodically wiped her blade clean with a dirty rag.

"Anything out of the ordinary?" inquired Saliith as the two Orcs made their way over and dropped into protesting chairs. Aerin discretely moved her chair further towards Neesha to escape from the stench of dried blood and sweat that was emanating from both of them.

"Nothing much. Lost three guardsmen out of the thirty-odd that come in with us." Lurog eased his much-dented shield off his back and laid it against the edge of the table. "In other news, a fair few more Guildsmen entered their section of the camp last night. Looks like Gorgoth's call to arms worked well enough. They're not even brawling with the gladiators too much."

"Let's hope they've still got that energy when they're facing down four open gates," snorted Mazoga, sheathing her longsword. "That's if Lurog leaves any Daedra left for them to have a crack at. What were you _doing_ when I was away in Skyrim?"

"Always best to keep in training," replied the Orc, a slight smirk plucking at a corner of his mouth. In the absence of Gorgoth, his abilities as a warrior were now not being overshadowed, and Saliith was willing to bet that he could have cleaved his through the Arena to reach Champion rank with ease. "But enough about that. Nothing out of the ordinary to report. Do you have any news?"

Saliith shook his head. "None of us have put our noses out of the door," he rasped. "This might be mild to you Orcs, but it's winter out there and the sun's barely up."

Lurog grunted. "I should have known," he said, pulling off his gauntlets. "But I saw a squad of soldiers marching through the gates just before we left to deal with the Daedra. I had wondered if..." his deep voice trailed off as the door swung open and rapidly shut again.

"I was told Ilend Vonius was staying in this inn?" The speaker was an Altmer, tall and slender yet still unusually muscular for his race. His long golden hair was slicked back from a weathered, battle-worn face, and he was dressed in grimy chainmail that had seen better days. A helmet was tucked under his left arm, leaving his war axe within easy reach of his right, and a simple but powerful recurve bow was slung across his back. Apart from his race, however, there was nothing to set this mer apart from the thousands of soldiers in Bruma apart from the black wolf's head on his small round shield.

Aerin surged to her feet, taking a few steps toward him and peering intently at his face, frowning and ignoring the fact that her cloak seemed ready to expose half her chest. "_Merandil_?" she asked incredulously.

The soldier from Kvatch returned her gaze, his eyebrows drawing down before a look of recognition crossed his severe features. "Aerin," he greeted, nodding civilly. "It's good to see you again. I'm-"

"You're alive!" The Wood Elf unceremoniously flung her arms around her fellow archer, prompting a fleeting look of alarm to spread over his face while the Orcs smirked knowingly to each other. "I thought everyone in Kvatch would be dead by now, ya know, what with all these Gates around," continued Aerin, pulling back from the Altmer and beaming up at him.

Merandil shook his head, a slight smile appearing briefly before vanishing. "Captain - no, Count Matius accomplished much before the invasion started in earnest," he told her, looking over the Bosmer's head to glance around the inn, whose patrons were obviously interested; there wasn't much word from Kvatch these days. "He got everyone back inside the walls and rebuilt them the best he could. You know our city is a natural fortress, and the Daedra have largely passed us by after that first assault." A grimace twisted his features. "The only attacks they attempted were half-hearted and up the mountain road. We repulsed them easily enough. They clearly had bigger fish to fry..."

Lurog stood, giving the High Elf an analytical gaze. "Gorgoth told me the Kvatch City Watch had been all but destroyed in the fighting," he observed. "It is good that you are here, but is it only you?"

"No." Merandil shook his head. "We had a few recruits from the civilian survivors of the battle, and a fair few of our wounded were healed. When Count Matius heard of Bruma's need, he was determined to do what he could to stop another Kvatch happening. So he sent a squad of fifteen. It's a full third of our force, but insignificant compared to the other contributions, and yet..." he laid a hand on his axe head, his chest swelling with pride. "Let it never be said that Kvatch shrank from its duty."

* * *

Gorgoth was wearing one of his extremely rare small smiles under his helmet as he rode out of the grounds of the stables near the Palace. His unusually good mood was due in part to the magnificent black horse he was sitting on; since the Orc's capture and extradition to Cyrodiil, Rauzkh had been returned to the stables and been doomed to a life of restriction. The stable's pasture had been sizeable, but not comparable to the vast plains that the warhorse had been used to galloping over in previous years. His foul temper and possessive protectiveness of the master who had trained him from a colt so long ago meant that few others could go near him without losing a finger or breaking a rib, let alone ride him.

The warhorse was a perfect example of the type of horse favoured by the Orcish heavy cavalry; huge and muscular, he was built for sheer strength and stamina rather than speed. He would need it; in battle the horses had to bear the weight of their own plate armour in addition to their heavily-armoured riders. Rauzkh was starting to get old – Gorgoth had first ridden him nearly ten years ago – but he was still a mighty horse, fiercely loyal and devastating at full charge. Both had been together long enough to know each other well; indeed, Rauzkh knew his rider better than most Orcs did, in his own way.

As he rode towards the East Gate, the Orcs going about their business seamlessly cleared a path for him, well-used to the comings and goings of horsemen. Most would recognise him; even with his helmet on, his armour and horse were both distinctive, and word was already spreading about the new Lord of Manruga. A few called out to him, but the warlord ignored them and urged Rauzkh forward. He had no time to listen to every Orc who wanted to ask him something, much as he would value the opinion of the common mer.

The East Gates were open halfway, not unusual in times of relative peace. They were massive doors of iron and steel, opened by a system of chains that required entire squads of Orcs to operate. The gateway was big enough for an army to march through twenty abreast, and the road was well-paved to make their passage smooth. No enemy had ever breached these gates, and nor would they. Nodding the the guards on duty, Gorgoth passed through the gates and left the city of his birth. He did not know when he would return, if ever, but at least he knew that he was bringing some small part of the nation with him towards the climatic battle against Dagon's forces.

Waiting to the north of the road, away from the outbuildings, were the five hundred cavalrymer that King Gortwog had entrusted him with, the plate armour of Orc and horse glimmering in the sunlight. As Gorgoth rode towards them, he looked up; silhouetted against the blue sky were the two banners borne at the head of the force. Beside the green-and-black banner of Orsinium was his own Steel Fist, the grey gauntlet on the field of blood-red. Pride surged within him, but he forced it down, instead turning his attention to the riders coming to meet him. He reined in Rauzkh and waited, responding to the impatient snort by gently stroking the warhorse's mane while removing his helmet.

King Gortwog and his brother motioned for their Bloodguards to wait as they drew up a few feet from Gorgoth. The warrior-shaman's father gave him a searching look before pursing his lips and nodding in something that seemed to be approval. The King, on the other hand, openly wore a small smile. "I don't think I need to say much, Gorgoth," he said as his nephew saluted and bowed his head slightly. "You're not the kind who needs inspiring speeches. I know you'll do us proud." He paused, his chest swelling. "Make sure it's known that Orsinium answered the call in Tamriel's time of need. Make sure that people know of the honour of the Orcs." The King's hand reached out and clasped the warrior-shaman's shoulder. "You're the saviour of Tamriel, Gorgoth. With Orcish steel in your hand and Orcish warriors at your back, what force could hope to stop you?" He withdrew his hand and moved his horse sideways, out of the way. "Go, and slaughter all who would stand in your way."

The Lord of Manruga responded with another salute and moved forward, only to rein in again. "Gorgoth, wait." Gornakh's voice was intense with urgency as his son turned to regard him expressionlessly. "You're a warrior-shaman, one of the most powerful in Orsinium, if not the most powerful." The warlord moved his horse closer, drawing up beside him. "You know how to fight. You know how to devastate armies. You know how to see things few others would. You know-" Gornakh cut off, shaking his head. He could have gone on for a lot longer, but Gorgoth knew exactly what he meant. "But more than all that, you're my _son_," continued Gornakh, his voice now laced with pride. "You might think otherwise, but I always did love you. Gorgoth... I am _proud_ of you." A savage smile split his rugged face. "Now go. Go onwards to victory. And when you return..."

"...we'll conclude our business," replied the warrior-shaman, finishing his father's sentence for him. He saluted, as one lord would to another. "Farewell, father. I will make sure that your efforts have not been in vain." Turning Rauzkh, he walked the horse over to the head of the large company he would be leading, suppressing the odd feeling of respect he now had for his father. He would think it over later; for now, he had Orcs to lead.

Gurbol rode out to meet him, his long lance thrust through a secure loop on his saddle to leave the rider's hands free for the long journey ahead. "Twenty packhorses are carrying everything we need, and we've got forty remounts," he reported, saluting. "We're ready to leave whenever you are, Lord Gorgoth."

"Good. We'll be heading east across the plains of High Rock and then through the mountains to Skyrim. We'll head to their flatlands and then make directly for the pass through the Jeralls to Bruma. No doubt their armies will be too busy with Oblivion Gates to worry about a relatively small foreign force riding across their land."

"And what if we come across any Oblivion Gates, Lord Gorgoth?" asked Gurbol as they rode to the head of the force, reining in beside the bannermer.

The warlord shook his head. "We cannot afford to waste the time to turn aside," he replied. "But we will cut down anyone – _anyone_ – who tries to stand in our way."

Gurbol nodded in grim understanding. "The command is yours, Lord Gorgoth," he said, bowing slightly from his saddle as he verbally transferred direct command of his soldiers.

Walking Rauzkh forward a few paces, Gorgoth turned him to observe the mer and womer now under his command. Five hundred hard, determined faces stared back at him from behind their helmets. They would know exactly what was expected of them, know exactly where they were going and how. The warrior-shaman nodded to himself. Better warriors than these were nearly impossible to find.

Standing in his stirrups, he addressed them, his booming voice echoing off the Iron Walls. "Orcs of Orsinium! We ride ahead to blood and death, to victory and glory!" He raised a clenched fist, staring into their faces with a savage intensity that he hadn't felt in years. "War calls us. Battle is our destiny. Your armour will be splattered with the blood of your enemies, your weapon arm will be heavy from cleaving through flesh and bone, and still we will fight on with fire in our hearts! Orcs of Orsinium, this is a time for _heroes_!" He dropped back into his saddle and span Rauzkh, pointing towards the east. "_Onward_! Onward to our destiny!" A wordless roar erupted behind him as he spurred his warhorse onto the road.

The heavy paving stones shook under the hooves of five hundred Orcs riding to war.

* * *

It had been six days since Gorgoth's departure from Bruma. Since then, the reinforcements had flowed in; the remainder of the Fighters Guild had arrived and quickly set up camp next to a strong delegation of Imperial Battlemages. The latter had been led personally by the new Arch-Mage of the Mages Guild, a Altmer of considerable ability who seemed to be – at best – half-mad. But allies were allies, and the battlemages meant that casualty rates for dealing with Oblivion Gates were much lower. The Imperial army in and around Bruma now numbered over five thousand, including nearly a hundred well-trained battlemages. Many were already saying that it was powerful enough to handle at least one Great Gate, but the Emperor was adamant that they had to wait for the Hero of Kvatch to return.

"Do you reckon he'll do it?" asked Ilend, his breath puffing out ahead of him into the cold northern night. A clear sky was above them, and the stars were shining brightly as the last memory of the sun faded from the black horizon. "Get back in time, I mean?"

Aerin laughed. "Course he will, ya idiot. He's Gorgoth." They were leaning on the city wall near the South Gate, looking out over County Bruma towards the Imperial City. The spire of White Gold Tower was just visible, a pillar of grey stone blocking out some of the stars. "Since when has he ever broken his word, eh?" She looked sideways at her lover and winked. The Bosmer was wearing her thick cloak over her leathers to keep the cold out, but had at least kept her hood down.

"I don't doubt his word, merely his ability to wrangle troops out of his king and get them here in time," responded the Guildsman, folding his arms as he looked down at the shattered ruins of several Oblivion Gates around the city.

"Not an easy feat at the best of times," grunted Merandil, who was leaning on the wall on Ilend's other side. "If he goes east, he'll have to cross the mountains of Skyrim and a fair few rivers before tackling that often-treacherous pass through the Jeralls. It's not an easy route, but..." the Altmer shook his head. "If he goes south, he'll either have to skirt around the Alik'r or go through it, which would probably cost him half his force. And then he'd have to cross into Cyrodiil far to the west and go through thick forest to get here." He grimaced and rapped his gauntlet-clad hands on a crenellation. "Either way he goes, he's got a tough journey.

"How do _you_ know so much geography, Merandil?" inquired Aerin, arching an eyebrow.

The High Elf smirked. "I've been in the Kvatch City Guard guard for eight years, as Ilend can tell you. But I wasn't always a guard." He looked across his ex-comrade towards the Bosmer. "I'm two hundred and four years old, Aerin. I think you can assume I did a fair bit of travelling before settling down."

"Please, spare me," muttered Ilend, rolling his eyes. "Ask him about the places he's seen and we'll be here for hours." He turned from the wall and looked down into the city, starting to regret leaving his cloak back at the inn. Both he and Merandil were both clad only in their chainmail armour. All of them had their weapons and potions at hand, of course; everyone in Bruma went around in a state of at least semi-readiness these days. "We should be getting back. Dralasa told me she was interested in the goldenrod." He shot an apologetic glance to his ex-comrade. "Her words, not mine."

"If that mercenary friend of yours was telling the truth, I'll forgive her a lot," snorted Merandil, starting off towards the tower that contained a spiralling stairway down to the ground. Aerin and Ilend exchanged knowing smiles and followed.

They were crunching through the snow and heading towards the Snowdrift Inn when the door of a nearby pub flew open. The sounds of laughter and drunkenness spilled out into the street, along with two burly Nords who dragged an old Imperial out by his arms and bodily threw him across the street before rapidly retreating indoors. The light and laughter was shut off and the old drunk man was left sprawling in the slush, his rasping laughter grating in their ears. "I told you!" he shouted as he attempted to struggle to his feet. "I told you he didn't have..." his voice trailed off into incomprehensible slurring as he slipped in the slush and fell flat on his back.

Merandil grimaced and moved to go around him, but Ilend frowned and moved closer, looking down intently at the prostrate drunk, who was gazing up at the night sky with oblivious, bloodshot eyes. His clothing was entirely unsuitable for Bruma; his shirt and trousers were threadbare and his unhealthy sallow skin could clearly been seen through several rips. A leather belt around his waist was loose and frayed to the point of almost breaking, and the sheathless shortsword it held was showing signs of rust. The soles of his leather shoes were so badly worn that his bare, frostbitten feet could be seen underneath.

As Ilend moved closer, the drunkard's eyes flickered to him, unfocused and slightly confused. "Who you...?" he asked, his speech barely intelligible. His nose had been broken, his head was completely bald apart from a few white tufts around his ears, and wrinkles covered his face. Old muscles had wasted away, and his previous large build meant that skin now sagged from his bones. But despite all that, the Guildsman recognised him, even if his old comrade did not.

"_Menien_?!" he gasped, recoiling, shocked at just how far his old friend Watch Sergeant Menien Goneld had fallen. The old, experienced soldier who had fought by his side through Oblivion had been replaced by a useless old drunk who would probably be dead within a few days. Merandil's head snapped around and he hurried to stand at the old Imperial's other side as Aerin looked on, wearing a look of slight confusion until realisation dawned on her face as well.

The old soldier's eyes were still unfocused as he mumbled something up at the ex-guardsman, so Ilend motioned to Merandil and the two of them grabbed his arms and hauled him upright, ignoring his slurred complaints. "We can't leave him here on the street," growled Merandil, frowning down at his former superior. "He'd freeze to death. How he managed to get here is beyond me..."

"Get him to the Snowdrift. I doubt Hjoldir will like it, but he won't turn him out if we pay well." The Guildsman heaved Menien to his feet and between them they started dragging him down the street, Aerin trailing in their wake. "How did it come to this? Did you know anything about it?"

"Nothing," muttered the Altmer, looking down at Menien with pain in his eyes. "He'd been different ever since he came back from that Gate, of course – harder, more bitter, angrier – but that would be expected, really. Then when we finally got some more alcohol, he started drinking to drown his past..." He shook his head. "He did it more and more often, until he was paralytic most of the day. That's when Count Matius – he's still head of the Watch as well – decided he couldn't do anything but dismiss him. Menien left Kvatch that same day... must have been three weeks ago."

"How did he survive with all these Gates around?" asked Aerin, now walking alongside her lover. "Surely any Dremora worth his sword could put this poor sod out of his misery?"

Ilend turned his head to frown at the Bosmer. "This 'poor sod' saved my life at one point, Aerin," he told her. "I owe him that. And that's why I'll do whatever I can for him."

"I remember him for who he was, not what he is now," added Merandil. "He was a good Watch Sergeant, a pleasure to serve under. He deserves better than dying in a puddle of his own piss."

"Fine, fine," muttered Aerin under her breath, darting forward to hold open the door to the inn for them. At this time, it was almost full, but their usual table near the fire had been reserved by Lurog and Mazoga, both of whom looked up from an animated conversation to frown at the half-unconscious Imperial being dragged in by two of his former comrades. The innkeeper, Hjoldir, looked up from the customer he was haranguing and snorted, no doubt mentally adding a fair few septims to the cost of their staying there.

"Who in Malacath's name is this worthless old drunk?"asked Mazoga, rising from her seat and glaring down at Menien, who was blinking stupidly at the light of the fire.

"An old friend of ours," grunted Ilend, managing to wrestle the drunkard into a chair, where he slumped forward and rested his head on the table, starting to snore loudly. The Guildsman grimaced and eased himself into the chair beside him. "He used to be a fine soldier, once... he fought at Kvatch."

Lurog snorted, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms, disapproval evident in his face. "Any man who will let something like this happen to him is unworthy of my respect." He leaned forward and sniffed at the sleeping Imperial, wrinkling his nose as he sat back. "I'm not sure what smells worse; the stale alcohol or his own piss."

Merandil glared at the Orc. "All he needs is-"

"Someone to to open his skull and do him a favour," muttered Mazoga, sitting back down and fingering the hilt of her sword. Her heavy ebony plate armour was absent at the moment, but even in nondescript leather armour it was hard to tell that she was of a different gender to the Orc sitting to her right. "He's no use to anyone right now and letting him live on like this just adds more disgrace to his memory."

"I... don't think these two think like Orcs, somehow," pointed out Aerin, who was sprawled out in her chair on Ilend's other side, clearly relatively unconcerned. "He'll be fine in the morning, apart from his head, I'll bet."

"Get him sober and on his feet and he still knows how to hold a sword," Ilend told the two Orcs, looking between them with hostility in his eyes. "Menien saved my life once. He went into Oblivion beside me and came out again. He fought through Kvatch. He's a hero and deserves another chance." There was steel in his gaze and a hint of pride in his voice. "What would you do if it was Gorgoth sitting there?"

Mazoga laughed bitterly. "Gorgoth would never do something like this to himself," she claimed, looking down at Menien with distaste evident in her eyes. "And he's been through more than this waste of space."

"Gorgoth could drink this entire place dry and still not get drunk, knowing him," snorted Aerin. Sensing the mood, she sighed, rolled her eyes, and got to her feet. "I'll be up in the room," she murmured in Ilend's ear, giving his shoulder a squeeze before sauntering off towards the stairs, smiling at the inevitable lewd comments she received from most tables she passed. Ilend barely reacted, focused on the Orcs across from him, keeping his anger in check.

"Malacath demands strength," rumbled Lurog, tapping the table with his bare fingers. "There is nothing strong about this. If he recovers to become what he once was – which I doubt – there will always be memory of this time of weakness. Any true Orc would be shamed by this."

"Not everyone is an Orc, you know," pointed out Merandil, his eyes narrowing. "Menien still has hope. He can still be of use. And he was – and is – my friend. That's all that matters and I'm willing to do whatever I can to help him, no matter what _you_ would do for a so-called friend in the same situation." The Altmer's grey eyes were full of fiery determination as his gaze flickered from Orc to Orc. "If you're not going to help, then at least remove your distraction and get over to some place where your company is more appreciated."

Mazoga rose from her seat so quickly that it toppled over, but Lurog swiftly put an arm up to prevent her diving across the table at Merandil. "Peace!" he urged, a warning glinting in his eyes as he slowly stood, looking down at his compatriot. "I won't have you throttling our allies on the eve of battle. Get to bed. You of all people need rest."

For a moment Ilend thought that Mazoga might draw her sword and attempt to kill her friend, given the anger evident in every line of her face. He and Merandil also surged to their feet, hands on their weapons as conversation in the common room drew to an abrupt halt and all eyes turned to the table near the fire. After brief internal struggle, however, Gorgoth's lover growled something in her own tongue and spun on her heel, striding from the common room and down the stairs towards the basement where the small contingent of Orcs were based. Lurog stared after her, a thoughtful expression on his face, before he too swept from the room without a backward glance, following her down to the basement.

"Orcs!" exclaimed the Altmer guardsman, sounding exasperated as he collapsed back down into his seat. "The Bretons are by far the worst when it comes to politics, but those bloody Orcs are almost as hard to get your head around, what with Malacath and Trinimac and honour and everything else they hold on to." He shook his head. "Well, at least they're on our side and can swing a sword well enough." His gaze softened as he looked down at Menien. "What are we going to do with him?"

Ilend sighed, resting his arms on the table as he stared into the fire. He wished that Aerin were there, rubbing the back of his neck and easing the worries that gnawed at him, but right now she was probably getting herself ready for their nightly activities. At least that thought roused him somewhat. "I'm sure with enough gold we can persuade Hjoldir to find him some place to sprawl for the night," he said, leaning back in his chair. "And in the morning when he wakes up, we can see about making him useful again..."

* * *

The sky was overcast with heavy dark clouds as General Adamus Phillida, Commander of the Imperial Legion, rode up the steep road towards Cloud Ruler Temple, surrounded by his personal bodyguard of twenty veteran Legionnaires. Their heavy plate armour – even the General's – all bore scars from past conflicts, some more recent than others. The horses, whose breath was steaming in the cold air, were equally grizzled, with tough leather armour protecting their flanks and chests from glancing blows. Hard faces glared suspiciously from behind the cheekguards of their helmets, their heads ever swivelling to try to detect an ambush, even here on the very approach to one of the most secure locations in Cyrodiil.

Cold was not something unknown to the General – he'd led armies in Skyrim in the depths of the Nordic winter – but he was growing old, and his double-layered armour was not designed for insulation. His thoughts were too active for him to pay much attention to the elements, however; his mind was already analysing the terrain, laying plans, thinking through the thousands of soldiers available to him. He'd seen many of them camped outside Bruma, and many had recognised him as he'd ridden through the city. He'd detached thirty men of his bodyguard to set up camp outside with the rest and find out what they could about the general mood and the situation among the soldiers. A general could never have too much information.

Oblivion Gates had preoccupied them all the way from the Imperial City. There had been two within sight from the road before they'd even reached Bruma, and as they went further north, the numbers of ruined arches that indicated vanquished Gates increased. Phillida had counted over a dozen, and he knew that there were many more out of sight of the Road. The army might have been no field legion, but it was certainly effective. He'd been impressed by the high levels of alertness and the numerous strong patrols that seemed to be everywhere on the roads. Even on the short journey from Bruma to Cloud Ruler Temple, they'd come across several twenty-strong patrols, each with two men on horses to carry messages while the rest would deal with any enemy forces they came across. Phillida doubted that he could have organised them much better himself.

The ancient fortress of the Blades loomed up ahead of them, standing strong and tall against the bleak grey sky. Some of the Blades were down in Bruma, carrying out assigned duties, but most of them would be here, manning the Emperor's last line of defence. Phillida had visited the Akaviri fortress a few times, but he never failed to be impressed by how easily it could be defended; the Blades numbered only a few more than a full-strength Legion century, but they could hold their Temple against an army if they had to. But then, he had also thought that Kvatch's natural defences had made it nearly impregnable. This was a new kind of war.

A challenge rang out from the battlements as the general and his bodyguard halted in front of the massive gates. The leader of Phillida's guard, a battle-hardened Nord called Vignar Fellhammer, bellowed a reply, stating that General Adamus Phillida was responding to the summons of Emperor Martin Septim. After a short period of waiting, the gates swung open and a squad of five Blades stepped out, eyeing the newcomers with the suspicion that Phillida had expected. Trust was hard to come by in war, at east initially.

Their leader, a bearded Nord almost as large as Vignar, looked up at the general and noted the purple plume on his helmet. "Good to see you, General," he grunted, bowing his head slightly. "Head on up. There's no room in the stables for the horses of all your bodyguard, but at least you're here. The Emperor's waiting in the Great Hall."

Phillida nodded and turned to Vignar. "Tell the rest of the men to get back to the camp. You'll stay with me." He dismounted and handed the reins to a Blade who'd come forward. The Nordic Blade beckoned and started off up the stairs, walking faster as Phillida and Vignar fell in beside him.

"We're just about ready for a climatic battle," he told them as they climbed. "Our troops are gaining experience all the time, we've got a whole crowd of battlemages, and the Hero of Kvatch will be back soon with help from Orsinium. But the Emperor will fill you in in full." The General raised an eyebrow but said nothing. As far as he knew, Gorgoth gro-Kharz hadn't left Cyrodiil, but if he was bringing aid from the home of the Orcs, it would be valued. He'd used Orcs in the past, both as infantry and cavalry, and there was no doubting their brutal effectiveness when used correctly.

They reached the entrance to the Great Hall – drawing inquisitive stares from Blades along the way – and entered, instantly feeling the chill of the North banished by the roaring fire at the opposite end of the hall. Phillida grunted in pleasure, removing his helmet and tucking it under his left arm. The Great Hall had barely changed in the time since he'd last seen it, though there were now more katanas adorning the wall in honour of the fallen Blades who had used them. Several Blades - both off-duty and on duty – were in evidence, warming themselves by the fire or standing inconspicuously behind one of the armchairs, which was occupied by the man who had summoned Phillida out of his relatively peaceful existence in the City.

Martin Septim rose from his chair as the General approached. It was obvious as to who he was; despite being dressed in an old blue robe that wouldn't look out of place on a provincial priest of the Nine, the similarities to his father Uriel were numerous. The piercing blue eyes, the set of his jaw, that slightly regal air... this was most definitely a Septim. But rumour had it that he hadn't known that until recently; could a former commoner really learn how to rule in just a few short months? There was only one way to find out.

"It is good to meet you, General Phillida," greeted Martin, approaching the General with his right hand outstretched. His voice was as rich as his father's had ever been; perhaps richer. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties and in good physical condition; that might well be called upon in the dark days ahead. Grasping the future Emperor's hand firmly, Phillida was pleased to find swordsman's callouses. Too many lords and counts had soft hands.

"It was hard to turn down such a summons, and now that I've seen you with my own eyes..." Phillida paused to nod significantly. "Yes, I have no doubt that you are indeed the last Septim. I am at your service, sire."

A small, satisfied smile spread across Martin's face as he motioned for Phillida to take the seat across from him. The General did so, suppressing a grateful smile as his aged bones were relieved of the weight of his armour. He laid his helmet on the arm of the chair as Vignar took his place at his captain's left shoulder, the old Nord's grey eyes alert and watchful, even here.

"Your commitment pleases me. If we can't have legions, at least we have a well-proven commander of soldiers," sighed Martin, sitting back down in his own chair and grimacing, as though recalling an unpleasant memory. "Do you have any idea why High Chancellor Ocato thinks me a fake?"

Phillida blinked in surprise. "A fake, sire?" he asked, eyebrows rising. "I'm not sure why he would think that, but he certainly didn't tell me about it. In fact, when I told him where I was going, he said it was the first he'd heard about you that wasn't rumour or hearsay." Ocato told him most things he was thinking about, as much as he could; he was one of the High Chancellor's closest confidants. Martin had certainly never come up in one of their many conversations; there were many things to be worrying about in the Empire true, but if Ocato had known that a Septim heir was still alive, Phillida was sure that he would have been as supportive as possible; ruling was the last thing the Altmer wanted.

"That's impossible. I sent him a letter and got a reply, signed and sealed with his sigil." Martin's eyes had narrowed. "He said that there was so much unrest in the provinces that he couldn't spare a single century to what he called 'a Septim pretender with no legitimacy'." The distaste on the Imperial's face was clear. "Apparently he forbade you to send any men north. I'm surprised he allowed you to come."

Phillida's forehead wrinkled as he frowned, searching his memory for any such conversation with the High Chancellor. "I might be old, sire, but my memory is still good. It has to be." He shook his head. "I never received any such orders from the High Chancellor. In fact, when I told him where I was going and who had summoned me, he quickly hurried off to his eyes-and-ears to find out all he could about you. There was never any mention of what you describe."

The future Emperor rubbed his chin, deep in thought. After a few moments, he beckoned one his Blades over, a Breton in the armour of a Knight Captain. A brief, whispered conversation followed, after which the captain straightened and saluted before marching from the Great Hall. "That matter will be cleared up in due time," said Martin, meeting Phillida's gaze once again. "But we have more important matters to discuss. We have an army of several thousand men that needs a leader and a battle plan."

"Tell me what you need," responded Phillida, leaning forward, eager to get down to business. Politics could wait. The battlefield was where he belonged.

* * *

The basement of the Snowdrift Inn was quite large in size, but the sheer amount of space that was used for storage meant that it was small and cramped when occupied by ten large Orcs. Illumination provided by a pair of lanterns hanging either side of the only door cast light over stacks of crates, casks of alcohol and the sleeping pallets barely large enough to accommodate a Bosmer, let alone an Orc. But the Orcs sworn into Gorgoth's service had all endured far worse. The basement itself was largely unchanged by its inhabitants, much to the relief of Hjoldir; the Orcs had few personal belongings, and they always took them with them when they left.

At the moment, the room was only occupied by two of them, though the tension in the air would be evident to any who unwisely entered without invitation. Lurog – in full armour – was striding from opposite wall to opposite wall, unconsciously stroking the head of his mace as he forced his annoyance down. His companion could be trying at the best of times, but now... inwardly he thanked Gorgoth for teaching him something of alchemy. He might not be able to heal his headaches using magic, but he could certainly dull the pain with a few herbs.

The source of the Orsimer's annoyance was sitting on her pallet, dressed only in her underclothes, hugging her knees to her chest and glaring at the cask of mead across from her. Mazoga seemed perpetually angry these days, when she wasn't depressed. Her temper had never been one of her good points, but lately she was forever on edge. The only time recently when he'd seen her back to nearly normal was when he'd been fighting alongside her in Oblivion, but Oblivion was hardly the place for an Orc who was now nearly six weeks pregnant.

"No, Mazoga," growled Lurog, turning to face her with steel in his voice. He'd known about her pregnancy for nearly a week now, but she had gone downhill since then. "Your temper is always frayed. You're throwing up every day. You're always nervous, and those nerves are setting you even more on edge than you were already. In that condition, you can all too easily make a misjudge-"

"You are _not_ stopping me fighting!" shouted Gorgoth's lover, rising to her feet and shaking her fist at him, kicking aside one of her boots from where she'd left it lying. "This is exactly what I wanted to avoid. I know he'll stop me fighting within two minutes when he gets back, but you-"

"I have the perfect right to make these kind of judgements, Mazoga," retorted Lurog, folding his arms and meeting her furious gaze, his thick eyebrows drawing down into a frown. "If you actually bothered to listen to reason, you would know that keeping you and your child safe is the logical course. We have thousands of soldiers here; your blade won't be missed." He had no doubts about her martial ability – she was certainly a fine warrior – but the risk was too great. He did not want to have to explain to Gorgoth how his lover and unborn child had died because of reduced combat effectiveness.

The other Orc made a disgusted sound and sat back down on her pallet, glaring up at him through a curtain of her braids that had fallen across her face. "You have no right to restrict me. I was born to fight, not to-"

"You were born to fight and to breed fighters," cut in Lurog, taking a step closer. "You've done the former very effectively for years; now it's time to put it aside and focus on the latter for a while. Besides..." he paused, not wanting to hurt his old friend, but not wanting to see her killed by her own foolishness. "Gorgoth wouldn't want his child put in any danger. You know he wants a strong heir to follow him. _You_ have no right to deny him that."

"He doesn't own me!" snarled Mazoga, flaring up again as she surged back to her feet and walked up to her compatriot, her mostly naked body not bothering her in the slightest as she prodded his chainmail-clad chest. "I'm a free womer, free to do whatever I-" Lurog's snort cut her off.

"Tell that to him." He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her down to sit beside him on his own pallet, keeping his grip firm until he felt her resistance stop. She glared at him, but he knew she would thank him later. Probably. She wasn't good at thanking people. Or apologising, for that matter. "Stop acting the fool. Carry on like this, and some Dremora is going to take advantage of your weakness – you know they only need the smallest opening – and gut you." His finger traced a line across her stomach. "Would you like it to be cut out of you? Going to Oblivion – or any battlefield, for that matter – in your current state is asking for just that."

Her face crumpled, her attitude changing from defiance to despair in a few moments. "Oh, _fuck_ this!" she sobbed, descending into a foul-mouthed tirade against the powers of nature that gave her vomiting, mood swings and all the other downsides of pregnancy. She angrily shook off his offer of a comforting arm around her shoulders. Lurog glanced towards the closed door; it was evening, and all eight of Gorgoth's sworn Orcs were upstairs drinking their way through half the Inn's stores while snow fell outside. Hopefully, that would keep them occupied for a while. None of them spoke good Common Cyrodilic, but while he and Mazoga could easily swap to that language if any came in, it was inevitable that they'd get the gist of it quite easily.

His attention was swiftly drawn back to the Orc at his side, who appeared to have controlled her emotions. For now, at least. "Lurog... you were there, weren't you? When he..." Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. "Tell me about his son."

The warrior grimaced. "That was an entirely different situation. It has no bearing-"

"Tell me!" Her head spun to meet his eyes, and from that stubborn look, he could tell that she wasn't about to be distracted easily. He sighed and tugged his gauntlets off.

"Help me take my chainmail off, and I might. I want to try to get some sleep soon enough." Standing, he began to work at the straps under the heavy layers of dark steel rings. Hissing in frustration, she got up and moved behind him, her hands expertly reaching the straps he would find hard to reach. "It was a year ago, about two months after he sent you away. You'd gone to Skyrim with Ra'vindra, if I recall correctly." She grunted in assent, helping him ease his chainmail hauberk off his muscular body and dropping it to the floor.

"You know how careful he is. Me, I've probably got a half-breed bastard running around somewhere, but he either kills those he rapes or keeps an eye on them. Normally his spells prevent the risk, but this time..." Lurog shook his head as his greaves joined his boots on the floor. "It hadn't worked, obviously. She'd been alone travelling on the road, no protection, deserving of rape to teach her that Malacath scorns the weak. Gorgoth was the only one that took her, so it had to be him." They started on the buckles of his leather armour. "We tracked her down just as she was giving birth, just me and him. It was a lonely shack in the hills of Sharoth. Probably didn't want any company, Orc or Breton. I stood outside while he went in and concluded his business."

"What happened?" demanded Mazoga, her voice ice-cold as she wrenched the leather cuirass from his back with unnecessary force.

"I wasn't there when it happened, of course, but when he came out he said I could go in if I wanted." He paused, remembering that dark night, the pounding rain running down his steel plate as he ducked into the tiny one-room shack. He remembered the look of fear and horror and repulsion on the faces of the unfortunate mother and the midwife, and most of all, he remembered the blood. "I'm not sure if Gorgoth's son had ever looked like him. All I could tell was that his skin was slightly greener than a Breton's would be normally." He shrugged, his voice remaining completely level. He was not bothered; most likely, he'd have done the same thing to avoid a half-breed son dishonouring his name. "Gorgoth had crushed his skull with his bare hands. He might have lived for a few minutes after birth, if that. A mercy, really..." That much was true; both the child and his mother would have been spurned and reviled by both societies.

"What then?"

Lurog snorted. "Nothing. I could have raped the midwife, but understandably I wasn't in the mood." Having removed all his leather armour, and clad only in his trousers, he turned around to regard Mazoga with a frown. "Your child will not be a half-breed bastard. He will be proud of it. And of you."

The other Orc sighed, shuddering slightly as she looked away from his gaze. "But what if I fail him?" she asked, a barely discernible tremor in her voice. "What if my baby is... weak, or deformed, or..."

Lurog cut her off by grabbing her shoulders and shaking her roughly. "Don't be an idiot with all those 'what-if's'. You're a strong, proud, fierce warrior of Orsinium and you're more than worthy to give him a child. So stop worrying about it and start loving it."

Slowly, she met his gaze again. Slowly, she nodded. "Gorgoth will be back soon," she whispered. Her voice was full of hope.

"He will. We might even see him smile."

* * *

In the six days of hard, relentless travel since he'd left Orsinium, Gorgoth's cavalry force had not been delayed. Several times they had spotted Oblivion Gates in the distance, but had not turned aside even to warn the nearest population. A few bandits had been trampled over, as had the suspicious patrol of Bretons who had tried to stop them just north of Evermor. There could be no delays. Halfway through the journey, Gorgoth had made rounds and did what he could to refresh every horse and rider using magic, exhausting himself in the process but ensuring greater speed, at least for a while. East across High Rock they had ridden, before navigating one of the treacherous passes through the Druadach Mountains into Skyrim and making their way down through the craggy valleys of the Reach. As night fell, they had set up a temporary camp just to the southwest of Lake Ilinalta in the hold of Falkreath. Tomorrow, they would ride hard, not even stopping for nightfall unless they had to.

Gorgoth's tent was near the centre of the camp, not much larger than the tents used by his mer. He did not believe in the opulence shown by so many of the Bretons on campaign; if his tent was largely indistinguishable from the rest, it would not help any raiders who somehow made it past the ever-watchful sentries and into the camp. The two Dremora guarding the tent flap might give it away, but having reliable guardians gave the warlord relative peace of mind. Of course, he knew that he would never truly be at peace – peace, like so many other things, was something for others and never himself – but it was good to have solitude for thinking.

He was sitting on his bedroll, still clad in his full plate armour; he would not remove it until they at least reached Bruma. A map planning their route down past Falkreath into the Jeralls was laid about before him, but he was ignoring it; their plans had already been laid, and they would be riding on after a few hours sleep. Medraka was sitting cross-legged with his back to the canvas opposite Gorgoth, but he was deep in contemplation himself; he would not be disturbing his summoner any time soon. Every time the journey halted, Gorgoth had been quick to summon the three Daedra; Kharag's words of warning and wisdom had not been forgotten.

The last words his father had spoken to him also resounded within his head. He did not doubt that Gornakh had been genuine, but it was the first time his father had ever told him that he was proud of his son. After he had taken Blood King from the warlord, he'd thought he'd seen a flicker of pride in his father's battered face, but outside the walls of Orsinium, he'd seen it in full.

Of course, Gorgoth had known from his early teens that the brutal, harsh training and education he received from his father and his Orcs were beneficial to him; he might have spent entire days and weeks in pain, but that training had made him what he now was; not only a proud, strong warrior, but the apparent last hope of Tamriel. Gornakh had been right; only with his training would Gorgoth had been able to get this far. It appeared that he and the rest of Tamriel owed his father much.

But it changed nothing. Neither his gratitude nor his father's pride would ever prevent Gorgoth's desire for vengeance. Separating him from his mother might have been a wise move in hindsight, but he had loved Kharz gra-Shagren with every fibre of his being. He had been an expensive nuisance; life as a prostitute in Orsinium's rougher areas was hard even without a weak, helpless, unwanted child to bring up. But she had refused to dispose of him despite it being the sensible option; she had refused to even contemplate it, refused to do anything but love him as her son. For that, she deserved vengeance. The six Orcs that had raped, tortured and murdered her in front of his eyes had all died agonising deaths; when he returned victorious to Orsinium, he would challenge he who had been responsible for it all, and her vengeance would be complete. Nothing his father could do would ever change that.

He forced his thoughts away to more immediate matters. The war at hand was more important than his personal dispute, no matter how deep his hatred ran. "Medraka." The Xivilai looked up, his orange eyes meeting the warrior-shaman's. "Knowing Daedra, I wouldn't be surprised if a few of them were lending aid to Dagon. I know I have seen Spider Daedra in the Deadlands before, where they have no business." He paused, leaning back and folding his arms. "That means Mephala has an interest. But who else is aiding your lord?"

Medraka regarded the Orc expressionlessly, clearly debating whether telling him anything would constitute a betrayal of his lord. Unlike many Xivilai, Medraka had firm beliefs on betrayal and was thought of as being unusually loyal; that was probably why the Dremora tolerated him as much as they did. Finally, he responded. "Mephala always has a hand in almost everything, whether you see it or not. Yes, those Spider Daedra were sent by her. Odious things." The Xivilai's grimace indicated that he did not think highly of them. "Boethia has also registered an interest; I do not know if he is merely an interested spectator, but he has ordered a legion of his Hungers to join us. As usual, no one has a clue as to what Sheogorath is up to, but his realm seems to be in uproar."

The warlord nodded slowly. It made sense; Mephala liked to have an interest anywhere, while Boethia might well have a personal interest in seeing Tamriel's natural order overthrown. Something else to make his allies aware of. Hungers and Spider Daedra would not be decisive – they could be dealt with as easily as other lesser Daedra – but it was always best that everyone was fully informed. The warrior-shaman changed the subject. "What will you do if we win?" he asked. He always found it interesting to converse with an enemy so frankly.

A slight sneer plucked at Medraka's purple lips. "You will not win," he replied confidently. "I will not be gladdened by your death, Gorgoth, but Dagon's victory is assured. You cannot stop us." A bold prediction, but the warrior-shaman knew the Xivilai; he was not one to underestimate or make hollow boasts. "We will not lose."

"We will see."

* * *

**A/N: And so another chapter ends. I'm sorry if it seems like I'm dragging out the pre-battle, but these things can't be rushed; rest assured that the battle WILL come this year, at least (I'm hoping to have the entire fic finished before my birthday, November 16). Remember that if you have any feedback/advice/questions/comments, they're only useful to me if you actually leave them in a review, so do that. Keep the reviews coming, people, and I'll do my best to break that writer's block for good. Here's hoping the next chapter isn't as long in coming.**


	47. The Coming Evil

**A/N: No, you're not reading it wrong; I have managed to write a full-length chapter in one week. Taking eighteen weeks to write two chapters was diabolically bad, so here's hoping my new-found speed can somewhat make up for that. My biggest worry is a potential decrease in quality, so make sure to tell me if anything isn't up to scratch. As for those reviewers:**

**Nameless: I see what you mean, but it works better for me with the 'but' than without it. I changed the 'nor' to 'neither'; made it look slightly better, at least. Yes, the cavalry will definitely show up, and with Phillida in charge you can be sure they'll be well-used... and as for Ocato, well... all will be revealed. Eventually. ;)**

**It seems I updated so freakishly quickly that some of my regular reviewers haven't even had the time to review yet... but don't worry, as the next chapter will definitely take me longer to write than this one. So don't forget to review, because I'll need all the help and encouragement I can get...**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-seven: The Coming Evil**

Not for the first time this morning, Ilend found himself sighing. Menien's skill with the sword had not faded, but his aged, weakened body and the withdrawal symptoms of his alcoholism were betraying him. Once again, Merandil had managed to disarm him with a deliberately clumsy attack that even a novice could have blocked. The old Imperial sank to his knees, ignoring the wooden practice sword lying in the snow a few paces away from him, breathing hard already despite only having been active for a few minutes. They'd got him up two hours after dawn by pouring a copious amount of freezing water over his head. Ilend had gained Burd's reluctant permission to stop his lessons until Menien was back in fighting shape, but if current form was anything to go by, it would take a long time.

It was fortunate that Merandil had an abundance of patience, but it was clear that even he was frustrated as he lowered his own practise sword, shaking his head. They were in a small open space behind one of the barracks rather than in any official training yard, and it had proven to be a wise choice; Menien would have been the laughing stock of the entire army within hours had they made this public. They'd bought him new clothes and leather armour, as well as a new longsword, but at the moment it was starting to look like money wasted. "Come on," growled Ilend, frowning down at his old friend. "Get up. You're not going to get back into shape by staying on your knees."

"Give me a few minutes," pleaded the ex-guardsman, his breathing coming in short gasps, billowing from his open mouth before dissipating into the cold morning air. "I don't have much energy." That was no surprise; after the long process of awakening from his drink-induced slumber, the Imperial had only managed to swallow a few mouthfuls of bread for breakfast, pushing the rest away, claiming it made him feel sick. Merandil had the presence of mind to have brought more food with them, so Ilend reached for the bag now, taking out a hunk of bread and some cheese and shoving them at Menien. "Eat, and you'll get more energy." Merandil, having the same idea, also reached in and thrust a flask of water at the Imperial.

He shrank back, but at least took it, looking at it balefully. "I want ale," he muttered, his voice containing a hint of anger. "I don't need it, but I want it. It's the only way to..." He shook his head and shuddered, swaying his way over to a stool and sitting down. Ilend and Merandil exchanged glances before the Imperial walked over and leaned on the wall of the barracks next to his compatriot.

"What happened to you, Menien?" he asked. They hadn't got much out of the ex-guardsman that morning, apart from a flurry of curses at having been awoken and near-constant unintelligible grumbling.

The older Imperial looked up at him with a haunted look in his bloodshot eyes. "I can't remember it, damn it," he muttered. "I have to forget." He took a small bite of his roll and grimaced, as though the taste was foreign to him.

Ilend sighed. "It was in Oblivion, wasn't it?" Menien's head snapped up. "When they took you off to that tower... well, I thought you were dead, but you're sitting here now." He leaned closer. "Do you wish you'd died in there?"

A long pause followed before the ex-guardsman finally nodded. "What they did to me in there..." He sighed, his hands shaking so much that he almost dropped his water. "No man would have come out of there unchanged, Ilend," he continued, his voice quavering. "Oleta might have healed me, but... Every night, I'm there again, in my nightmares, screaming, begging for mercy. I want to forget. I try to forget. But every morning when I wake up after drowning myself, it's still there. I can't escape my memories, Ilend. I can't."

The Guildsman grunted. He knew all to well what it was like to be hounded by memories, and he'd had it a lot easier than his old friend. Pushing himself off the barracks wall, he started to pace, one hand clenching and unclenching on his sword hilt. Menien continued, his voice still shaky. "What else can I do, Ilend? I can't live with that... constant nightmare every time I close my eyes. I can't..." He shook his head. "No one understands. They've not seen the fires as I've seen them..."

"That placed changed me as well, Menien," grated Ilend, turning to stare his old friend in the eyes. "I know I wasn't tortured, but do you see me crawling around in the mud, unable to tell one end of a sword from the other? What use are you against a Daedra?" He walked up to the Imperial and dragged him up out of his seat, glaring at him. "Yes, the Daedra did terrible things to you. And what are you doing about? Trying to forget it? Have you forgotten who you used to be?" He shoved the old guardsman back against the barracks wall, folding his arms. "Don't you want revenge, Menien?" he asked, his voice growing softer. "The way you're going, you'll die forgotten and useless down some back alley. Wouldn't you rather die with a sword in your hand with Daedric blood staining the blade? That way, you'd at least have some closure. And in Aetherius... you'd get your peace."

The old Imperial stared at him, mouth gaping slightly as his rheumy eyes started to show some signs of comprehension. "There weren't any Daedra to fight in Kvatch," he mumbled. "Got bored. Wanted to find some. Captain didn't understand... chucked me out. Then it's all just... drunken haze."

"Well, you're sober now," responded Merandil, moving to stand beside Ilend. "Do you want to die well, or die like some common drunk who's never done anything worthwhile in his life?"

At long last, some of the old steel appeared to return to Menien's gaze, and he straightened, looking for his practice sword. "Good point," he growled, bending to pick it up. "Come on, then. I'd rather not be gutted by the first Dremora that comes across me." He clumsily slipped into a combat stance, his sword hand shaking slightly, but at least he was already showing improvement. Ilend smiled and stepped back to watch. He was willing to sacrifice much to get Menien the death he deserved; he owed the old man that much, at least.

* * *

It had been too long since Aerin had gone on a hunt, just her and her bow and her prey. The last time had been just after she'd left the Arena with Gorgoth, and she'd had few opportunities since. It also gave her a chance to get out alone, away from the crowded city, a chance to think. She wouldn't have had Ilend's company anyway. The Guildsman had told her he intended to take all day training Menien if he had to, which only served to increase her irritation; he'd been so distracted in bed last night that he'd only had sex once, and not at all in the morning. She knew the Imperial's reasoning, of course, and knew that her anger was illogical, but thought it best to clear her head anyway. After spending the morning with her Argonian friends, she'd left soon after lunch with her bow, swords, a few potions and a horn to warn Bruma if she sighted an Oblivion Gate.

She was wearing her thick cloak over her leather armour to keep the cold out, but she'd swiftly learnt how to move quickly and quietly with deep snow underfoot. She was about five miles west of Bruma, on the verges of the forest. The sun had reached its noonday zenith hours ago and was now halfway to the horizon. Trueshot was in her hands with an arrow nocked. The size of the recurve bow meant that she had to walk almost straight, but she had long since learnt how to hunt with Trueshot; Gorgoth had called it one of the most powerful bows he'd ever seen, so it was worth any kind of hardship.

The stag she was hunting had stopped near a thicket. Aerin immediately slowed, creeping forward silently, keeping a watchful eye on the ground around her as well as the stag. As she moved into range and got a clear shot, she stopped and slowly raised herself to her full height, holding her breath as she smoothly drew the fletchings of her arrow almost to her cheek. It had always annoyed her that she couldn't draw her own bow fully no matter how much she worked on her strength, but that fact was that it was a large, powerful recurve designed for an Argonian's hands, not an oversized Bosmer's.

Her arrow took the stag in the flank, the penetrative power of Trueshot driving it so far in that only two inches of shaft were visible. It immediately lurched forward, grunting before collapsing to the ground. The Wood Elf's eyes darted around the immediate area before lowering Trueshot and stepping forward, drawing her hunting knife as she approached her fallen prey. The knife was large and heavy, a clumsy weapon when compared to the enchanted dagger that Ilend had given her, but it was far better at this kind of work. Kneeling beside the stag, she quickly cut its throat and was preparing to attempt to retrieve her arrow when a twig breaking jerked her head up.

The Nord was standing about ten paces from her, the grimace on his face a clear indication that he was inwardly cursing his misstep. Ragged tears in his dirty furs, the unwashed state of his face, his straggly beard and the naked broadsword in his hand all indicated that he was someone who lived on the wrong side of the law.

Aerin immediately leapt to her feet, dropping her knife and nocking an arrow, drawing it almost to her cheek. "Stay back," she warned, tossing her head to throw the hood of her cloak back from her head. Her cloak might keep her warm, but in close combat it would be a burden. Lowering her bow to remove it at the moment would be suicide, however.

"Nice of you to shoot our dinner for us, girl," replied the Nord, his yellowing, cracked teeth visible as he flashed her a wicked grin. Aerin's darting eyes picked out at least three more bandits in amongst the trees, and sounds behind her indicated more surrounding her. "We'll be taking that. And any gold you've got. And those pretty weapons of yours..." He sneered and took a step closer.

"Move another muscle and you'll have an arrow in your throat," snarled the Bosmer, trying to mask her fear. She might have expected an Oblivion Gate, but bandits so close to such a large army? There was no time to ponder it; if she didn't act on her toes now, she might well be raped and left to rot the snow with her throat slit.

The Nord chuckled, his eyes moving briefly to his comrades behind her. "I don't think so, girl. Easier for us if you just do as we tell you. Pretty thing like you shouldn't come to these woods if you're not prepared..." A twig cracked behind Aerin. Someone was moving closer.

Without hesitation, she released. The bandit had a moment to look shocked as her arrow flew neatly into the centre of his throat, just as she'd promised. As he fell back, clawing at the arrow and attempting to draw breath, she was already spinning, nocking another arrow, drawing and releasing as quickly as she could aim. One of the two bandits moving in behind her – an Imperial, this one – fell sideways into a tree with an arrow in his chest. She drew another arrow, cursing Trueshot's size for her slow rate of fire, and managed to kill the Imperial's companion before he got to within five feet.

Not turning to look at the bandits who were surely right behind her, she ducked her head and dashed off as quickly as she could, swapping Trueshot from one hand to the other as she shrugged her cloak off, barely noticing the cold hitting her as sweat started to moisten her leathers. There was the sound of a stumble behind her as one of the bandits ran into her discarded cloak, but they were gaining. Aerin couldn't sprint in ankle-deep snow holding a large bow, whereas they were unencumbered and had lived in such conditions for years. They would catch her, and they would kill her if they took her in the back. Spitting defiance, she turned and faced them, throwing down Trueshot and whipping one of her shortswords from its scabbard.

There were three of them, splitting up to each take her from a different direction. She moved quickly towards the man in the centre, a broad Imperial wearing a cracked helmet and studded leather armour that had seen better days. Using everything that her lover had ever taught her, the Wood Elf feinted left and right before stabbing upwards towards his armpit. He saw the threat too late to parry with his longsword but managed to throw himself backwards, escaping with nothing more than a scratch on his leather. Aerin cursed and rolled to her side, barely avoiding the warhammer that smashed into the ground where she'd been. There were too many of them, too many to deal with; she was an archer, not a swordsmer. Gritting her teeth, she started to spin to face them again. A heavy blow to her ribs sent her sprawling into the snow, all breath driven from her lungs.

Standing above her was a Redguard, a satisfied expression on his gaunt face as he dropped his club and threw himself down on top of her, forcing her sword arm above her head and pinning it to the ground as he punched her in the temple, her head snapping to the side. The Wood Elf attempted to kick him off, but she was too stunned to move quickly enough; within seconds, he had pinned her legs to the ground and was unbuckling her sword belt, which held all her weapons, not to mention her potions.

"Fuck you," grunted Aerin, her voice thick due to the blood in her mouth. She had lost, that was certain; defiance was all she had left to combat the despair quickly rising like bile in her throat. The Redguard raised a hand to punch her again.

He was thrown off her with such force that he rolled into the trunk of a tree several feet away. The Bosmer stared at him uncomprehendingly before noticing the massive arrow in his side. Looking up, she saw the Imperial collapsing to the ground, half his head a ruined mess, felled by the mace of a large Orc in steel plate armour. For a single, relieved moment, Aerin thought that some of Gorgoth's Orcs had followed her, only for her hopes to be dashed when she realised that she neither recognised this Orc nor his armour. Not waiting for the third bandit's death scream, the archer rolled onto her stomach and started to push herself upwards, only for a heavy boot to crush her to the ground. As she hissed in agony, a hard, heavily accented voice spoke from above her.

"Highly impressive, little elf. But bad for you." The Orc's voice was harsh as he knelt, pressing his knee into her spine as he finished removing her belt, taking it and all her weapons. Above her, another voice called out a question in a language that she knew was Orcish. Her captor answered in the same tongue, picking up the shortsword that had fallen from her grasp and sheathing it in the empty scabbard on her belt.

"What do you-" She was cut off by the Orc pushing her face down into the snow. Shuddering with the cold, she could only listen as several voices joined a discussion. Finally, the painful pressure of the knee in her spine was lifted, but only because her captor was wrenching her hands behind her back and tying her wrists with rope that seemed thick enough to secure horses. Twisting her head to the side, she spat out snow and tried again. "Who are you?"

"We'll be the ones asking the questions, little elf," snarled the Orc, tying the knot so tightly that she swiftly started to lose feeling in her hands. That done, he grasped her by the shoulder and dragged her roughly to her feet, grabbing her other shoulder to steady the Bosmer as she staggered backwards into him.

There were four other Orcs in the vicinity, all in steel plate armour with fur cloaks. Two were checking the bodies of the bandits, but one was running his hands over Trueshot, which he'd picked from the ground. Anger flared in her, but quickly fled as another Orc stepped up in front of her and roughly grabbed her jaw, forcing her head upwards to stare him in the eyes. It was he who had the massive recurve bow on his back, and he alone wore no helmet; his cold yellow eyes were hard and unforgiving. She flinched. There was no mercy in those eyes. No matter what those bandits had planned for her, it couldn't have been worse than what these Orcs were capable of. She might have liked Gorgoth, but she had always shuddered at the mere prospect of getting on his bad side.

"Take her," he grunted, withdrawing his hand and looking over towards the other Orcs. He shouted something in Orcish, spurring them into action as Aerin's captor dragged her around and pushed her, prompting her to walk forward with him.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked desperately, trying to fight the sheer terror that was now starting to grip her. She'd told a few people where she was going, but not when she'd be back; it might well be tomorrow before the alarm was raised, and by then she could be miles away.

"Another word and I gag you," muttered the Orc, kneeing her in the back so hard she almost fell. Stumbling, she tried to twist out of his grasp, but his hands were iron clamps on her shoulders. Feeling panic rising, she attempted to test the strength of the rope binding her wrists, but it only dug in deeper. "Try to run and I'll rape you bloody," added the Orc behind her, his tone of voice unchanging. They were approaching a small clearing in which five massive horses were tied to trees. Aerin knew where she'd seen such horses before. Her eyes grew wide with terror as she finally remembered the Orcs that Burzukh had sent north before Gorgoth had killed him.

"I'm not going to-" she was cut off by a gauntleted palm slapping her head to one side, the Orc growling something before reaching for his belt. At that moment – when he only had one hand on her – Aerin twisted quicker than he might have thought possible, lashing out behind her and pushing herself away from him with her leg. She managed to tear herself from his grasp and spun, sprinting away from him and the horses before he could react. Shouts and bellowed commands echoed through the woods behind her, but she didn't look back; all she could focus on now was getting away, as far away as possible. In her blind panic, she didn't even know if she was heading towards Bruma or away from it.

Boots rapidly crunching through snow behind her spurred her onto greater efforts, but the Orc was stronger with longer legs and boundless stamina, not to mention the fact that his hands weren't tied behind his back. Within a minute of her escape, a powerful blow to her back sent her sprawling, and he threw himself down atop her. Desperately struggling with the strength of someone fighting for her life, she tried to squirm free and even bite his hand through his gauntlet, but within seconds he had her pinned. Throwing back her head to abandon all dignity and scream for help, the world blacked out as he drew a hood down over her head, covering her entire face. Grabbing her jaw, he forced rope into her mouth, tying it around her head so tightly that her teeth hurt. Blind and silenced, and almost retching at the taste and feel of the rough, dusty fabric of the hood, Aerin could only moan helplessly as Burzukh's Orc picked her up and effortlessly slung her over his shoulder, growling promises of rape and torture as he carried her back to his horse.

* * *

The camp surrounding Bruma was sprawling and haphazard, yet in most places it still maintained some semblance of order. Most of the captains or leaders of the city garrison contingents had enforced discipline amongst their men, as had various mercenary captains, and Burd had made sure that the rest of the soldiers knew what not to do. Even so, however, such a large collection of soldiers with such wildly differing backgrounds and methods of operation meant that navigating the camp was often troublesome, particularly for messengers who had to deliver vital orders to every person of authority in the camp before the sun went down.

Callia was one such messenger; General Adamus Phillida had been quick to establish himself, and after learning the situation had called for a general briefing of all the captains in the entire army, to be held in Bruma after dusk in the Great Chapel of Talos. He wanted to spread his battle plans as quickly as possible, so that every man or mer in the army knew exactly what was expected of them. The Knight Sister had got the feeling that battle would be joined as soon as Gorgoth and his reinforcements turned up. Martin and Steffan had been obliging, and over a dozen of the Blades had been sent down to Bruma to carry the orders to every leader they could find.

Judging from the position of the sun relative to the horizon, there was approximately two hours until dusk, though most of the population hadn't even had dinner yet; the depths of winter brought long, cold nights to the north. Callia was wearing a thick wool cloak over her Akaviri-styled plate armour, yet gusts of freezing wind still made her shiver from time to time, and trudging through ankle-deep slush and snow was slowly turning her feet numb with cold. At least everyone had the sense to build the latrines outside the boundaries of the camp, or she would have been walking through worse than half-melted water.

She'd already delivered messages to several captains of the city contingents and a few mercenary captains, and her voice was growing weary from repeating the same words over and over again, but she still had several more to see to; Phillida had been very insistent that everyone had to have at least some idea of what the army was intended to achieve and how. So the Breton trudged on, her head swivelling as she tried to make out the white-and-red sigil of the White Arrows, a mercenary company from Valenwood with two hundred Bosmeri archers. Grunting in annoyance, she removed her helmet to give her greater peripheral vision, ignoring the cold wind that buffeted her face and plucked at her hair as she secured the helmet to her belt.

There were no Oblivion Gates open at present, so the camp was crowded; she could barely move five paces before coming across yet another group of soldiers clustered around a brazier or small fire, and many more were moving around the camp, either sidestepping out of her way as she passed or forcing her to do the same for them. One of these men, a stocky Imperial in the armour of a legionary, did a double take, looking at her sharply before grabbing her shoulder as she walked past.

"What is it?" she asked impatiently as she turned to regard him, forcing traffic to flow around them. His face was rendered largely anonymous by the cheekguards of his helmet.

The Imperial paused for a moment, his jaw working before he found the words he was looking for. "Can I talk to you?" he asked, his voice low, his mouth moving somewhat awkwardly as though something was pulling it to one side. Not waiting for a response, he ushered her off the path and into an area of relative seclusion between two large tents. As he stopped, the Blade spun out of his grasp and frowned up at him.

"I have important messages to deliver before sunset-"

"I know, and I won't keep you for long, I..." The Imperial's voice trailed off, as though he was unsure of what to say, and he looked around, presumably to make sure they were private. "You might not remember me, but I was there when you delivered that message to General Phillida a while back. When he was attacked by the Dark Brotherhood." A spasm of hatred and rage crossed his face, but he quickly smoothed it out into an expression of neutrality.

"Ah." Callia recalled that day, when the legionary in front of her had so infuriated her with his comments about the Blades before getting his face cut open by an assassin's enchanted dagger. His eyes were different, she realised; previously, there had been steel in them, but also warmth. Now, they were harder, more guarded. "What do you want?" she asked carefully.

"I wanted..." He clenched his jaw as though he was having trouble saying something unpleasant. "I wanted to apologise. When..." The legionary paused, sighing. "I was useless in that fight. The general I was protecting was attacked in front of me, and what did I do? I got my face cut open. If anyone protected him, it was you. Phillida might have survived, but I failed..." He shook his head. "Failed the same as you Blades failed in protecting old Uriel, effectively. Now I realise you didn't need your noses rubbed in the dirt. You've done a lot for all of us since. I'm sorry."

Callia looked up at the Imperial – who seemed slightly embarrassed – for several seconds, trying to think up a response. He had infuriated her, true, but his apology seemed genuine, even if it had required the ruination of his face for him to realise what he'd done. And with eyes like those, he had certainly seen his own fair share of loss. "I forgive you," she told him, softening her voice. "We're both on the same side here, we've both seen comrades hacked down fighting these Daedra. We can't let petty disagreements get in the way."

He smiled slightly, some of the tension leaving his face. "You're right." Turning his head, he squinted up at the sun, which was sinking towards the horizon. "I'd better not keep you any longer," he muttered, turning to leave.

"Wait," she said, laying a hand on his arm. He turned to look at her, raising a curious eyebrow. "Can I see your face?" she asked hesitantly. If the scar was as bad as she thought it was, it wouldn't be something he would want to show off, but she felt a sudden urge to see it.

He winced and turned back to face her, slowly raising a hand to his helmet. "It's not pretty," he grunted.

"I've seen my fair share in my time. Please?"

The Imperial sighed and removed his helmet. He appeared to be growing his brown hair, probably to attempt to one day cover his wound, but it was still far too short. What had once been a moderately handsome, strong face had been sliced almost into two by the assassin's dagger. Starting on his left temple just below his hairline, the livid red scar cut down across his face, barely missing his left eye before ending beside his mouth, pulling his lips sideways. The opposite corner of his mouth twitched as she half-raised a hand to touch it before thinking better of it.

"There aren't many who look at me like they used to," growled the legionary, glaring into the nothingness above her head. "I see it in their faces. Sympathy. Pity. Even disgust." He shook his head angrily. "Damn them all. At least here people don't care much. Here I can get on with killing Daedra." A look of extreme hatred twisted his maimed features into a horrific snarl before he controlled himself. "Might as well spend all the time I can on the battlefield. I don't have anything to hope for back home. Making friends is hard. Getting a girl is impossible."

Callia was momentarily lost for words. To avoid meeting his eyes, she looked around the camp surrounding them, taking in the thousands of soldiers ready for battle. Grunting in realisation, she turned back to him. "Look around you," she said. "There are hundreds of soldiers here who will go home with scars as bad as yours, or maybe even worse. Thousands. Many already have some. Are their families going to reject them just for that?" She had to reach up to put a hand on his shoulder; he was only just above average height for an Imperial, but she was short for a Breton. "It's what's on the inside that counts. You're a better man than a good-looking thief; I know that much. And as for your scar..." She sighed, shaking her head. "It's ugly, yes, but wear it as a badge of honour. Use it to tell people of the wounds you took during the Oblivion Crisis, when you fought to save the world." He might not have got the scar fighting Daedra, but the fact was that he had fought them in the past and bled for it; she hoped he would see that. The words sounded weak even in her ears – she was more often on the receiving ends of pep talks rather than giving them – but it was all she could think of.

The Imperial looked down at her, cocking his head to one side slightly as he frowned, clearly deep in thought. His hand twitched as though he had unconsciously started to reach for his scar then stopped himself. Eventually, he spoke. "What's your name?" he asked.

Slightly taken aback, the Knight Sister paused for a moment before answering. "Callia Petit," she replied, withdrawing her hand from his shoulder. "I... I think we got off to a bad start back in the City."

"Yes, we did. Let's try and forget that, eh?" The soldier's eyes seemed to have grown slightly softer, less angry. "I'm Primo Varius. A fair few people are calling me Scarface now, but..." He shrugged. "Names have never bothered me like reactions have. They can't think up anything for me that's worse than what I heard Argonians and Khajiit getting called back down in Leyawiin."

"Indeed. Names don't hurt. Actions do." Callia winced; she knew the truth of that. "Well, at least if we die, that's one less regret we'll both have at the end," she said, smiling slightly. Smiling wasn't something she tended to do much; dealing with a dying mother and a grief-stricken father had done that to her.

He returned the smile, though the scar meant it was lopsided. "I'd best not distract you any longer," he told her, turning and squinting at the sun. "You're on important Blades business, most likely. I should never have interrupted you."

"No, no... peace of mind is important." The Breton was glad he was looking west rather than at her, meaning he wouldn't see her grimace. She hadn't thought much about Gorgoth since he'd left, but the knowledge of what must happen between them was forever present in the back of her mind. She forced the sensation down and smoothed her face as Primo looked back at her. "It's messenger duty. I'll have finished before sundown anyway."

"Messenger duty? Ah, those orders. Vignar's told us already." His square jaw set determinedly. "The battle's coming soon. Dagon's going to have to wade through blood to get an inch of Tamriel. My only wish is that I was in the front line rather than guarding the old man, but knowing him..." He chuckled drily. "In battles, when there is no more manoeuvring to be done, he likes to appear where the fighting is fiercest to inspire his men. I think my sword will be bloody by the end of it."

"And mine. Captain Renault's assigned me to the Emperor's expanded bodyguard." Callia folded her arms, smiling. "He'll be kept back initially, of course, but he intends to send himself wherever we look likely to break, to plug any gaps and inspire the men. 'An Emperor must lead from the front, and not send men to die for him from afar, or he in no true Emperor'." She laughed lightly. "He's starting to sound like an Emperor, certainly." Looking up at Primo, her smile grew wider. "So it seems like we might end up fighting side by side..."

"So it would seem..." The Imperial returned her smile before rolling his shoulders and placing a hand on his sword hilt. "It was good to meet you, Callia, but I have to be getting back. Good luck to you."

"And to you, Primo." The legionary nodded to her then turned on his heel and marched back to the pathway, lost to her eye within seconds by the ever-shifting traffic of soldiers. She remained still for a moment before making her own way back to the path and moving on, her head shifting from side to side to locate her target. Her duty might not yet be done, but at least she now felt slightly more at ease; after being talked to for so long about her own problems, it had been good to actually repay the favour by helping someone else with his.

* * *

The entire world was darkness and pain.

Aerin's captor had slung her face down over his horse in front of the saddle before climbing up himself, clamping her in position with a hand on her back and warning her not to move or make make any noise, as if she could. Then the leader had barked an order, the company had set off at a trot, and the real pain began. By the time they'd covered about a mile, the Bosmer's entire front was bruised by constantly being battered against the horse's broad, muscular back. Air was constantly being driven from her lungs, and the tight gag in her mouth and the hood over her face meant that she could barely draw breath before the next jolt arrived. She was so focused on attempting to breathe and stay on the horse that all rational thought had long since fled from her; there was no chance to ponder her situation and attempt to find any ray of hope.

She lost all track of time and distance as the punishing journey continued. The only indication that they were nearing their destination came when the pace abruptly slowed, the horses dropping to a walk. Sweat was staining Aerin's leathers as she took the opportunity to draw in as much breath as she could through her nose, chest heaving against the horse's back. Her captor barked something in his incomprehensible language in reply to another of his company, and a conversation ensued. Some of Gorgoth's Orcs had attempted to teach her the language, but what little she'd learnt had long since been forgotten in her panic.

The halt was sudden and almost rolled her forward onto the horse's neck until Burzukh's Orc roughly shoved her off his mount. A pained groan burst from her throat as she landed on her back, adding bruises to her arms and back to go with the multitude already aching on her front. She felt as though the Orc had been pummelling her with a cudgel rather than just holding her on his horse. The ankle-deep snow instantly soaked through her leathers, reminding her of how cold the weather was and the fact that her cloak was lying in the forest miles away. All thoughts of the cold fled, however, as the Orc grabbed one of her shoulders and hauled her upright. Blind, disorientated and without the use of her arms, she was completely reliant on his direction as he shoved her forward, his hands on her shoulders guiding her as he forced her onwards. The Bosmer had never felt so helpless in her life.

Her entire body was aching before long, but the warrior behind her was ruthless, forcing her to take fast, long strides, catching her as she almost fell twice and shoving her onwards with growled threats. They were not alone; all around her she could hear and smell other armoured Orcs walking through the snow. Her captor occasionally responded to some comment, but mostly he kept pressing onward.

Eventually, after what felt like half an hour but was probably just a few minutes, he pulled her backwards into him as he stopped, speaking clearly in his own tongue to someone in front of them. After some incomprehensible conversation, Aerin was pushed forward into the arms of this new captor, who hauled her roughly around and dragged her after him through what had to be a tent flap. Taking a few steps inside, he threw her to the floor with enough force that she slid to the opposite tent wall, her breath leaving her once again with a pained grunt.

"You're going to get questioned," a harsh voice warned her. "Make it easy for yourself." The sound of his armour moving meant she could tell he had left the tent and was presumably standing guard outside.

Panic welled up inside Aerin, and she forced herself up into a sitting position, frantically pulling at the rope binding her wrists, her fingers scrabbling as they attempted to reach up to find the knot. It was no use, of course, and a low moan rose from her throat as she finally accepted there was no easy way out of here. Even if she'd had the use of her eyes, she doubted she could have sneaked her way out of the tent unseen, let alone out of a camp of at least twenty Orcs. Inwardly, she cursed her foolishness; she should never have left the city alone to hunt, should never have left the safety of the army that had surrounded her. She let herself slump backwards to the tent floor, tears of frustration mingling with tears of terror, quickly absorbed by the hood's fabric. All she could do was lie there and wait for the inevitable with her heart pounding and her stomach churning.

Not much time had passed before there was an exchange of conversation outside the tent, then a stomping as at least three heavy bodies entered the tent. The Bosmer tried to calm herself and failed. Two of the Orcs stepped to her sides and raised her up between them, a hand gripping each shoulder. A silence fell; Aerin assumed the third – presumably the leader – was studying her. After a few seconds, he spoke, his voice distorted by a helmet. She felt cold steel at the back of her neck, and panicked momentarily before realising what the Orsimer was doing. After a few seconds of sawing, the rope fell away from her mouth and the hood was torn from her head. Working her aching jaw muscles, the Wood Elf blinked at the relative brightness of the tent before her eyes widened at the sight of the Orc in front of her.

"Do I scare you?" he asked in heavily accented Cyrodilic. Aerin nodded wordlessly, trying to shrink back but restrained by the two Orcs flanking her. The figure standing in front of her was the biggest Orsimer she'd ever seen; he was broad-shouldered with a heavy build, and at seven feet tall he seemed almost too big for the tent. It was the armour, however, that took Aerin's breath away; it was thick plate armour, the steel so dark it appeared almost black rather than dark grey. Jagged angles and straight lines of folded steel made him appear even taller, and spikes jutted out from several places. The helmet was even more fearsome; the two eye holes were wide slits that seemed to be drawn down in a ferocious frown. A crown of spikes circling the top of the helm were almost brushing the ceiling.

As the Bosmer cowered backwards, one of the Orcs holding her barked a laugh. She instinctively turned her head towards the noise, and her mouth dropped open in shock. Her head swiftly turned to the other one, and she gasped in astonishment. Her captors were not Orcs, but Dremora, both helmetless and both wearing expressions of mirth. As realisation started to dawn on her, the archer turned back to look at the Orc, who had just finished removing his helmet and attaching it to a hook on his belt.

As usual, there was no hint of mirth on the face of Gorgoth gro-Kharz, but neither did he seem displeased. "One of my scout patrols came across you and seemed to think you were a spy. I doubt our enemy is _that_ well-prepared, but I did tell them to be vigilant." He folded his arms across his breastplate and regarded her with his usual cold gaze, though the hint of a smirk might have been playing around one of the corners of his mouth. "You seem shocked."

For a moment, Aerin was too stunned to even think. Then a mixture of emotions flooded her; overwhelming relief that made her knees sag, confusion as to what had happened to Burzukh's Orcs, slight anger at herself for her stupidity, and happiness at seeing Gorgoth again. "I..." She fumbled for the words, wishing that her senses hadn't suddenly deserted her. "I thought you were those Orcs that Burzukh had sent north," she finally blurted.

"My scouts found them as well, about an hour and a half ago. The battle was over before I even got there; some of them might have joined me, but no matter. Their death has finally laid that problem to rest." Gorgoth's gaze shifted from her to one of the Dremora holding her; they would probably be Xilinkar and Chaxil, if he'd summoned the same ones he'd used at Atatar. "Untie her and go and find her weapons. You might even find them before they've been divided up amongst that patrol."

"Trueshot," grunted Aerin, some part of her old fear returning as one of the Dremora swept from the tent, the other moving behind her to work on the knots. "If I don't get it back..."

"You are our ally, so you and your possessions cannot be regarded as a spoil of war," replied Gorgoth. "Everything you had will be returned to you. We are not thieves." That much was true; his tent was utterly unfurnished. The only possessions in it were on Gorgoth's body; his Akaviri dai-katana and the Thornblade balanced each other on his sword belt, and another strap running across his chest held Sinweaver and Blood King on his back.

"Nice of ya." Aerin sighed in relief as the ropes around her wrists were finally removed, rubbing them and wincing as the circulation was restored. Now that the initial rush of emotion had partially worn off, she was all the more aware of the pain she was in. "Could I have healing?" she asked.

Gorgoth nodded and stepped over to her, laying a gauntleted hand on her head. The cool blue light of healing magic enveloped her, and instantly the pain of her bruises and other wounds faded as though they'd never been there, leaving the Wood Elf with only the memory of the sheer terror she'd felt. "It's good ta see ya, big guy, but... what exactly are ya doing making camp here?" she inquired. "I thought you'd be hurrying ta see Martin as soon as ya got here..."

"And I will be. We only arrived just over an hour ago. We are five miles from Bruma, and I thought it best to make camp here and let my mer and their horses get the rest they need. We have come a long way, Aerin."

"Ya don't say. Orsinium ta Bruma in under ten days? I looked at a map." The archer shook her head, starting to relax. The Dremora had moved over to stand by the tent flap, managing to appear casual and lethally purposeful at the same time. "How many did ya bring, anyway?"

"Five hundred heavy horsemer. There is no better shock cavalry in the known world. Phillida will know how to use us." The Orsimer, folded his arms, one hand rising to tap his canine. "I will be riding into Bruma to meet Martin and Phillida as soon as I am ready. You will want to be getting back, I expect?" She nodded. "That is convenient. What were you doing out here anyway?"

"Out hunting." When the warrior-shaman looked down at her as though expecting more, she stepped back at him and raised a defiant eyebrow. "What? I don't have ta tell ya everything I've been doing, ya know."

"I suppose not. But I myself should tell you that I am now one of the most powerful mer in Orsinium. I am now the Lord of Manruga." The Orc gazed off into the middle distance. "Had I the time, I could have partially consolidated my rule and brought my entire army with me. But wishing for what we cannot have is futile."

"You're really full of surprises now, ain't ya?" Aerin chuckled; she hadn't really been surprised at his revelation. If he'd told her he intended to enter Apocrypha to wrestle Hermaeus Mora in order to gain the knowledge needed to set up his own realm of existence, she probably wouldn't have been surprised. He was Gorgoth. Further conversation was prevented by the return of the second Dremora, who was holding her sword belt in one hand and Trueshot in the other. The Bosmer instantly stepped over to reclaim them, checking over Trueshot before carefully placing it on her back.

"How much longer will you require our services for?" asked the Dremora as the archer buckled her sword belt around her waist. Nothing was missing; Gorgoth's Orcs were as good as his word, it seemed. "It would be... unwise for us to make any appearance so close to an army that has been fighting our brethren for weeks."

"Indeed. I will release you soon to join the fight. I hope our paths do not cross on the fields of battle."

It was only then that Aerin remembered that these Dremora were in fact her enemies, and realised that she might meet them again very soon, on opposite sides of the battlefield. She instantly stepped back to stand beside Gorgoth; she knew that they couldn't defy their summoner, but she still felt uncomfortable about how one of them was looking at her. His orange eyes had narrowed, and his gaze was fixed on Trueshot. "From what Gorgoth has told me, I would rather not face that thing in battle," he muttered, half to himself. His eyes rose to meet hers. "If we meet on the battlefield, Bosmer, I hope it is within range of my sword."

The Wood Elf scoffed to hide her slight unease. "Not likely. I'll be with the other archers."

"You'll be where Phillida puts you," grunted Gorgoth. "Speaking of which, I want to be there before the sun fully sets. Send for Gurbol." As one of the Dremora left the tent, he turned back to the archer. "You will never have experienced anything like this battle, Aerin. Are you ready for it?"

She snorted. "I don't doubt it'll be big, but since I joined up with you..." Smirking, she cast her mind back over the memories of the last few months. "I've been dragged through Oblivion, ancient forts, Ayleid cities... I've been stabbed in the gut, stabbed through the leg, had more cuts and bruises than I can count, broken bones..." It had been no laughing matter at the time, of course, but she grinned anyway. "Yeah, I think ya could call me ready."

"This battle will not end the war, but it will be the beginning of the end." The Orc laid a hand on each of the sword hilts on his belt. "Win glory in battle, Aerin, and Malacath will smile on you."

The reply was in such typical Gorgoth fashion that Aerin chuckled, walking over and wrapping both her arms around him, not even caring that she couldn't actually reach all the way around him. "I've missed ya, Gorgoth. It's good to see ya again." With the Hero of Kvatch – and five hundred Orcish warriors – on their side, they couldn't possibly lose.

* * *

The normal congregation of the Chapel of Talos in Bruma was around double the size of the people currently in the vast structure, but even so, it still seemed crowded. Maybe it was because the pews had been shoved to the side to make way for a long table holding many enormous maps, and maybe because almost all the people in the Chapel were in full armour and armed to the teeth. General Adamus Phillida had sent messages to anyone with any kind of military authority in the disorganised army and told them to come and listen to the battle plan that he had thrashed out. The result was a lot of soldiers and a few mages waiting around in an enclosed space waiting for something to happen.

Martin felt eyes on him. It was inevitable; he was standing behind the altar with the General, Grandmaster Steffan and a few bodyguards, away from the mass around the tables, but it was hard for them not to notice him. He was proclaimed as the new Emperor of Tamriel by many, and was the man they had come to fight for, to die for. It wasn't hard to determine who he was; Phillida had advised him to wear his armour as battle was imminent, and the Blades had made sure he looked like an Emperor. Heavy ebony plate armour covered him from neck to toe, gold and black in colour, so elaborately decorated and gilded that the darkness of the ebony could barely be seen underneath. The Imperial Dragon was prominently displayed on the breastplate, spreading its golden wings over his chest. It was no useless ceremonial armour, however; the Blades had made sure of that. They had also made sure that he knew how to not only fight in it but to make it feel like his second skin.

His belt was leather of the best quality, worked with gold thread and with another gold Imperial Dragon on the buckle. One one side, it carried several healing potions and two finely made daggers, along with a hook from which his helmet currently hung from. Balancing them on the other side was Goldbrand. It has been Baurus who had first suggested he use the katana; while initially reluctant to use a Daedric artefact, no matter how powerful it was, Martin had eventually conceded that if he was going to take part in the battle, he needed to have the best possible chance of surviving. He had at first offered it to some of the other Blades, but they had all assured him that he was more than worthy of wielding it; Lathar and his punishing training regimen had seen to that.

Apparently, there were a few leaders still missing; Phillida was stubbornly refusing to start the briefing until every last available person was present. The ex-priest took the opportunity to scan the crowd, recognising many of them. The captains of the city's contingents were all there, as was the Arch-Mage of the Mages Guild – seemingly talking to herself and not to anyone else – and Modryn Oreyn, standing in for the absent Gorgoth as leader of the Fighter's Guild. The Dark Elf was in deep conversation with Lurog gro-Brugh; the Orsimer only led about ten Orcs, but none had questioned his presence. Agronak gro-Malog and Saliith were there was well, the Argonian resisting the cold a lot better since a Dunmer called Dralasa Helas had cast a warming spell on him. According to some, she had slept with him as well, along with half the men in Bruma, but Martin was never one to believe every rumour he came across. A powerfully-built grim-faced Redguard clad in bronze plate armour was also present; he apparently led a small company of the Bronze Shields, the elite warriors of Hammerfell and numbered among the best mortal fighters in the known world.

Countess Narina Carvain was also in attendance, standing next to Captain Burd and looking very out of place in her court finery, but she had every right to be there; this was her city, after all, and it was she who had given permission for the army to let a Great Gate open. All the Knight Captains of the Blades were also in attendance, and most of the Blades were down in Bruma; Phillida had made it clear that they would be marching to battle mere hours after this briefing, and given what happened to Uriel, the Blades were not about to take any chances.

The massive oak doors at the end of the Chapel swung open then shut again, announcing the appearance of a latecomer. Phillida looked up and muttered something to Vignar Fellhammer, his hulking Nordic bodyguard. The grizzled warrior had probably got his name from the warhammer on his back, which was as tall as a Breton with a head as large as an anvil. Straightening, the General turned from where he'd been leaning with his hands on the altar and glanced at Martin. "It's time to start, sire," he muttered, motioning that they should take their places at the head of the table. Martin nodded and followed his lead, coming around to stand at the head of the table shoulder-to-shoulder with his general, the Blades taking up positions behind them. Conversation started to tail off, but clearly not quickly enough for Vignar, who bellowed for everyone to be quiet in a voice that shook the rafters high above. Silence fell as the assembled audience stepped up to stand around the table, all looking towards their Emperor and their General.

"It's good that you're all here," started Phillida. "If everyone knows the plan, then confusion is minimised. I understand that you and your men have been dealing with Oblivion Gates for some time. That experience will be valuable, but we're not going to be closing a Gate this time." He looked around the long table, looking into their eyes before gesturing down at the maps spread out across the table. "Make sure you're familiar with at least some of these. They detail all the land within five miles of Bruma in any direction. We're not sure where this decisive battle will be fought, only that it will be near. We must have all the knowledge we can about all the potential locations."

As the assorted men and mer looked down at the maps, some shifting for a better view, the General continued, leaning forward with his fists resting on the table. "The plan is a simple one; it has to be, given the situation. We find a Gate, but we do not close it. Instead, we let another two open. That will enable Dagon to open a Great Gate, which will give us what we need, but it will also mean thousands of Daedra invading our realm." The Imperial's tone of voice did not change; his casual tone could have been speaking about the recent snowfall or what he would be having for dinner. Unnerving to some, but reassuring to many. "The Hero of Kvatch will head into the Great Gate to secure the Great Sigil Stone, but until he gets back, we must hold or the Empire will fall."

Someone tried to speak, but a stony glare from Vignar swiftly silenced them. "None of you have faced more than two Gates at once," continued Phillida, looking around. "Now we'll be facing at least four, one of them a Great Gate, for however long we need to. There's no way to avoid casualties; hundreds are going to die in this battle." He straightened from leaning on the table and folded his arms. "But stick to the plan and we will prevail. I understand that Dagon or one of his minions normally opens a Gate just after dawn?" A flurry of nods and agreements followed. "Good. We'll use that one. Five hundred soldiers will stay here in Bruma to go against any Oblivion Gates that open elsewhere, and also to help the militia guard the city." Shortly after his arrival, the General had approved the creation a volunteer militia from the citizens of Bruma, but they wouldn't see action unless the city was directly attacked.

"The rest of the army will be ready to march as soon as they get the word that this Gate has opened. There will be no time to form up; each company assigned to the battle must get to the battlefield as quickly as it can without waiting for others. After defeating the initial Daedric invaders, we won't enter; that should give their commander enough of a message. Dagon will take the opportunity and open another Gate nearby." He and Martin had discussed that point at great length; guessing as to what a Daedric Lord would do and staking the entire battle on it was risky business, but there was no real alternative; they would need the entire army, and could not waste time holding any detachments back in case Dagon tried to change the location of his main thrust. At least there was one point in their favour; the three Gates had to be close to each other in order to make a Great Gate possible.

Phillida paused, peering intently at some of the maps before speaking again. "We will avoid direct melee combat for as long as possible. When the first major thrust comes from the first gate, we'll meet it with arrows only." There were about a thousand archers in the army, many of them Bosmeri mercenaries. "If they start to advance, the battlemages will give them hell." In addition to the battlemages sent by the Mages Guild and brought by some of the city detachments, a few mercenary spellswords had turned up, as well as court wizards from some of the cities. "That will probably be enough to stem the tide from the first Gate, but it's not going to close until the Great Gate is closed, most likely; Daedra will be pouring from it all the time if their commander knows what he's doing; immortals rarely let death bother them for more than few hours."

"Then when the second and third Gates open, expect them to bring in reinforcements constantly and as quickly as they can. Now, this is the important bit." All around the table, people leaned forward, intent on the General's words. "I'm not saying your men are bad fighters, but Dremora have centuries of experience at least, and one-on-one they're a match for the best of us. Some of the oldest could probably chew up a century by themselves, and that's without throwing their mages into the mix." Several nodded; many had fought a Dremora themselves before, and while they knew they could be defeated, an entire army of them was not an attractive prospect. "Dagon has better shock troops, however. He'll send them in first."

The General's gravelly voice rose, growing more heated. "When the melee battle is joined – and it will be, those archers and mages can't suppress two Gates at once – expect nothing like what you've experienced before. Even if we had enough tower shields for a proper shield wall, it wouldn't be much use; daedroth will smash right through it, and we can expect Dagon to use a lot of them, and worse." He and Martin had also speculated over the Daedric strategy; unable to produce an accurate guess, the General had estimated what he would do if he were in Dagon's position and prepared a plan to counter it. "Daedroth, clannfear, scamps, atronachs, seducers, even Spider Daedra. You'll face them all running amok through your lines, slaughtering everything they can lay their hands on. Know that it's just a spoiling attack."

"While your lines are torn asunder and there's chaos in the ranks... that's when the Dremora form up and march towards you. Facing them organised would be hard enough, but if they reach us when we're in disarray all the Hero of Kvatch will come back to is a dying ground. But we're not going to let that happen." His challenging gaze told them they had more than just the Daedra to fear if they failed. "No, we're not letting those Dremora form up. We're taking the fight to them, crush them against the Gates, give them no room to manoeuvre, force them to fight alongside their wilder brethren rather than letting the shock troops wreak havoc in our rear ranks while they decimate our front."

"It's going to be relentless, but you're all going to have to keep your heads. As soon as that second gate opens, a detachment will charge it while another moves to the first Gate to keep it suppressed. Then another will go to the third Gate when that opens. Trust the captains I've put over you and you won't go far wrong." He had split the rank-and-file into three groups and put them under the command of an experienced, trusted soldier; Grandmaster Steffan led one of them, with Captain Burd and Modryn Oreyn leading the other two. "Archers, after the second Gate opens, swap to picking your targets; stick to the smaller Daedra. That way your arrows won't be wasted. Mages, focus on taking out atronachs and Dremora mages; I want as few fireballs landing in our ranks as possible." They all knew of the devastation that a single-good sized fireball could wreak on a company of soldiers. "And as for the rank-and-file..." Phillida drew a deep breath, looking around him. "Try to throw them back into their Gates, if you can. Confusion won't help them. A lot of you are going to die, but at least you'll die well."

He let silence fall for a few seconds, giving the others time to think before speaking again. "Any questions?" There were several questions that Martin could have thought up, but that was part of Phillida's psychology; letting his captains ask meaningful questions made them feel less useless, according to him.

"I have one." It was the grizzled Redguard in the bronze plate, his accent that of Hammerfell. "Where _is_ the Hero of Kvatch?" Several around the table nodded in agreement, curious frowns on their faces.

"We received a message from him several hours ago," replied Phillida. Martin recalled the Orc that had ridden up to Cloud Ruler Temple on a lathered horse and bellowed his message to the Blades on duty before riding off again. "He will be here within the hour, if my sense of time has not deserted me." The Redguard pursed his lips, clearly not wholly satisfied, but several others also had questions.

"What about our reserves?" asked Modryn Oreyn, talking over a few others who had pushed forward. "Not all of our infantry will be committed to three gates. You're no idiot."

"We have prepared for that," responded the General, folding his arms. "There will be two reserves. One, a thousand strong and comprised of some of our best men, will be commanded by Captain Dion of Skingrad and will take the fight to the Daedra coming out of the Great Gate. The other, smaller, will consist of Emperor Martin and his bodyguards. They'll go to wherever they are needed. If the battle is balanced on a knife-edge I'll get involved myself." There were a few knowing smiles at that; many around the table would be pleased to see a general get his hands dirty. "And in an emergency, the archers can be pressed forward as light infantry." An upraised hand cut off the protests of several mercenary archer captains. "Only at great need. Trust me to use you well."

"One thousand men doesn't seem like a lot to use against the Great Gate," pointed out a Breton mercenary captain.

"They'll do. They'll be sent in after the cavalry." A wolfish grin spread over Phillida's face before quickly fading. "Of course, I can always draw men from the other detachments to reinforce."

"We have cavalry?" Martin couldn't see the speaker, but it was clear that his confusion was echoed throughout the assembled audience. Phillida had told all of them that they could leave their horses at the horse lines or stables.

"We do. They're coming with the Hero of Kvatch."

"What if they don't get here in time?" demanded Captain Leland of Cheydinhal.

"They-" Phillida cut off as the great doors at the end of the Chapel swung open, admitting the cold night air. The crowd at the end of the table parted, letting all eyes rest on the newcomer. Martin felt a satisfied, relieved smile spread over his face. A low murmur spread throughout the room.

Gorgoth gro-Kharz had changed since the future Emperor had last seen him. When he left Cloud Ruler Temple, he had been wearing an ill-fitting suit of battered Akaviri-styled plate armour; now he was wearing a heavy black chainmail hauberk that fell to his knees, and more chainmail covered his limbs. His leather belt was thick and wide, worked with silver thread, displaying in its centre a buckle in the shape of a clenched fist forged from the same dark grey steel of his boots. The clasp of his long, thick dark fur cloak was also a steel fist, and on the ring finger of his right hand was a gold signet ring. But it was more than just his clothes that had changed; the Orc's entire bearing was now more regal, more powerful. Those cold, hard yellow eyes were unchanged, his angular face wearing its same stony expression, but there was now no mistaking this Orsimer for some common spellsword.

Everyone around him allowed him room as he walked up to the opposite end of the long table from Martin and Phillida, his gaze slowly shifting from one to the other. "We are ready for battle," he claimed, his deep voice resounding in the otherwise silent room.

Phillida nodded in satisfaction, his eyes not shying away from Gorgoth's like many had in the past. "Good," he responded. "We can fill you in on the details you missed later. For now, are there any more questions now that the Hero of Kvatch has made his appearance?"

There were a few, but they were mostly inconsequential, and easily answered. After satisfied that everyone had got his message, the General smiled grimly and straightened. "I will see you tomorrow on the field of battle. For now, go back to your men and inform them of the battle plan. Then get a good night's sleep, if you can. We'll all need it."

The dismissal was clear, and the captains immediately started to leave, breaking up into small groups to discuss the battle or heading back to their men alone. Martin himself moved away from Phillida, pausing for a moment before walking towards Gorgoth, but he was beaten to it. Lurog gro-Brugh had instantly forced his way to his old friend's side and was engaging him in a conversation spoken in Orcish. A hand on the ex-priest's shoulder diverted his attention.

"You're still completely sure you want to lead from the front of your bodyguard?" asked a cool voice behind him. Martin resisted the temptation to sigh before turning. Renault had asked him exactly the same question three times already today. He understood that she didn't want another dead Emperor on her hands, but Uriel VII had been an old man, and despite his skill in magic he had known the hour of his death and made no attempt to resist it. Martin was different; he was younger and stronger, not to mention wielding a Daedric blade of immense power, and he had no intention of dying just yet.

"I am sure, Captain," he told her, keeping his irritation out of his voice. "If I let my bodyguard surround me completely, I might as well be using a cheese grater rather than Goldbrand. No, watch my flanks and my back; I can take care of what's in front of me."

She slowly nodded. "Very well, sire," she replied, saluting. Many of the Blades were happy to see their Emperor getting his hands dirty, but Renault was most definitely not one of them; in addition to the standard Imperial Bodyguard, she had drafted in over half the entire Blades force in Cloud Ruler Temple to protect him personally during the battle. She would probably have taken everyone in the fortress if Steffan had allowed it, but he had told ten of the least effective in combat to remain behind and hold it if the battle turned against them. The Breton turned and walked over to Steffan to engage him in conversation, leaving Martin relatively alone with only his usual two bodyguards shadowing him at a respectful distance. He turned and started walking towards Gorgoth again before stopping.

Lurog was on one knee before the warrior-shaman, gripping a dagger's blade with his left hand. As the ex-priest watched, the Orsimer slid the blade out of his grasp, clenching his fist as the blood started to seep between his fingers. He started to speak in the Orcish tongue. Martin had picked up a few words of the language; not nearly enough to know what was being said, but it was easy to guess. He'd read about the Orcish Bloodguards swearing their life, blood and honour to protect and serve their lords. Their fanatical devotion and unbreakable loyalty – along with their martial prowess, which apparently was a given – made them among the best individual warriors in the known world, according to several texts. It might have been Martin's imagination, but he thought he saw a tiny smile on Gorgoth's face.

"Not surprising, really. That Lurog's been tearing apart Daedra every day." The future Emperor looked sideways to see the Champion of the Fighters Guild watching his Guildmaster. "Bloody good to see him again. Knew he'd be coming back, but he could at least have told me how long he'd take. I'll be having words, but I guess I'll have to wait in line." With a grunt, and not waiting for a response, Oreyn turned on his heel and walked off, leaving Martin looking at his back with a slight smile on his face. Nothing would ever change Modryn Oreyn.

"Emperor." The ex-priest turned to return the gaze of the warrior-shaman, standing a few feet from him. Lurog was standing behind his lord's right shoulder, already adopting the guarded, watchful air of a bodyguard. "My strength is yours, my Emperor," intoned Gorgoth, bowing his head slightly with his right hand on the hilt of his Akaviri dai-katana.

"Good to hear. We will have great need of it in these dark times." Martin's grave expression faded, replaced by a welcoming smile. "It's good to see you again. Your appearance was most timely."

"I swore I would return within ten days. I do not break my word." The Orc's head turned to regard General Phillida, who had stepped up to stand beside Martin. There were few others left inside the chapel now. "General. My men are encamped five miles away. All will be rested and ready to move quickly before dawn. We will be at the battlefield long before the Great Gate opens."

"I'm glad you're on our side, Gorgoth," Phillida told him, ignoring the sharp look he got from Lurog. They were probably meant to add a title to the warrior-shaman's name now, or something similar. Martin had no idea what the Orc had accomplished in Orsinium, only that he had returned as promised with valued reinforcements. "I'll fill you in on the plan," continued Phillida. "Of course, you know best how to make use of Orcish heavy cavalry, but I thought if we held them back until the Great Gate opens..." Martin fell in beside them as they moved slowly towards the head of the table, with Phillida pointing out positions on the maps as they walked. He forced down the nerves that had suddenly arisen in the pit of his stomach; battle was coming, and Emperors had no use for nerves. They would fight and win, or the world was doomed.

* * *

**A/N: I'm not entirely happy with this chapter; there's a lot of dialogue in the last section, the biggest bit I've ever written, I think. Tell me if you think something's bad, tell me if you think something's good, etc.. The next chapter is the Battle of Bruma, and I really hope I can live up to the build-up I've given it. It needs to be perfect after all that, so if I fail to deliver I'll have let you all down. Here's hoping I can make it work...**


	48. Warriors of Tamriel

**A/N: Apologies for taking so long, but the writer's block came back for a bit, and I had to make sure this chapter was as good as I could make it. It is, after all, the long-awaited-for Battle of Bruma. As usual, review to give me your thoughts/opinions/point out errors, but I need them even more now; this is one of the most important chapters I've ever written.**

**Underpaid Critic (Chapter 46 review): Character limits have been the bane of my existence in the past, mainly when writing reviews... anyhow, yes, anything expansive involving Gorgoth's child needs another fic to itself. When I finish this, you'll still have time to enjoy Skyrim before I come to write about it, given that I have a DB fic to get out of the way first...**

**(Chapter 47 review): That's good to hear... sometimes I'm not sure what to think about these things, but it's good to hear I pulled it off. And yes, this thing is definitely very long; there's not long left, but it might overhaul War & Peace yet.**

**Random Reader: I have to be hard on myself: I'm a perfectionist, after all. But yes, this battle is definitely going to involve high casualties on the Imperial side, for sure. The Daedra won't suffer any casualties, of course, but they'll still leave thousands of corpses behind. And as this is before Skyrim... well, when I come to write my Skyrim fic, I might well include a reference to Martin using Goldbrand in this battle if it's appropriate to slip it into conversation somewhere.**

**Right, enough of me blathering on. Here's hoping my Battle of Bruma is up to expectations, and don't forget to tell me what you think.**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-eight: Warriors of Tamriel**

The Imperial hung in darkness, suspended from the high ceiling by a rope tied around his ankles. The only marks on his naked body were the cruel cuts and tears that the guard's whips had left him with; far worse was the magical pain raging inside him, gradually eroding all the hope left he had to him. Much more of it and he would go mad. He was alone in the darkness; no torches were lit, and the guards had long since departed, leaving him alone in his personal hell. The pain reached a crescendo, and he shrieked, more out of terror than in pain. _He_ knew. _He_ was coming.

It seemed like hours before light finally started to seep under the stone door, though it could not have been more than a few minutes. His eyes flinched away from the sudden light as the door swung open to admit the guards, the light of their torches reflected in their burnished breastplates. It was who they brought with them that the Imperial did not want to see, however.

"Of all crimes, betrayal is the one I hate the most," he said, his voice courteous and as smooth as silk, even now, but that served only to make his words more chilling. The guards took the Imperial's limp, unresisting body in their hands and turned him towards the speaker, who stepped forward, looking his captive in the eyes. "It would appear that even your master cannot make something truly unbreakable," he continued in that same unruffled tone. He didn't always speak like that; the Imperial had seen him as few others had, and he was as expressive as any mer... but this was different.

The pain racking the captive's body peaked again, and he jerked so hard the guards had to wrestle him back into position. "Ask me!" he screamed, his voice shrill, that of a broken man. There was no hope now. This could go on for weeks, months, years. There could be no escape but through the truth. "Ask me!" He screamed again, pleading.

A look of distaste crossed High Chancellor Ocato's face. "Torture is not a tool I like using," he mused, talking as though to himself. "But in this case, it was the only path." He took a step closer to his former employee, previously one of his most trusted associates, a man he had used to write hundreds of notes and to pass their replies on to him. The Imperial retained some tiny shred of satisfaction that he had gone unnoticed for so long, but there was nothing else for him. He had to talk. The pain eased slightly.

"What do you want to know?" he asked the Altmer, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath.

"Let's start with any correspondence I might have had from a certain Martin Septim," replied Ocato, folding his arms and fixing his betrayer with a determined expression. "I'm sure you have much to tell me."

The Imperial took a deep breath and started talking, inwardly praying that Camoran might forgive him once he finally reached Paradise.

* * *

Rooms had been made available for him in the Countess' residence, but Martin had politely told her that he would rather spend the night in the Chapel of his ancestor. Sleep had not been quick in coming; after eating, he and Phillida and Gorgoth – he was Lord Gorgoth now, but he didn't seem to mind them dropping the 'Lord' – had talked for a few hours about various subjects; the upcoming battle, Orsinium, the Legion. The warrior-shaman was characteristically close-mouthed about what had happened back in Orsinium, but Martin hadn't expected to get much out of him.

As the night deepened, the ex-priest had knelt before the Chapel to pray, ignoring the various goings-on around him. Phillida, who tonight was basing himself from the Chapel, sent away messengers every few minutes, and someone came in to talk to Gorgoth almost as frequently. Several times it was an Orcish messenger, sometimes a companion. Lurog disappeared at one point before returning later wearing a suit of heavy steel plate armour, with a new shield on his back to replace his old damaged one. Martin noticed them all, but focused his energies on calling on his ancestor to aid his descendant, asking for his courage, his leadership.

The reply was not obvious – few acts by the Nine were obvious – but after a while Martin felt an inexplicable sense of peace settle over him, calming his nerves and strengthening his spirit. Tiber Septim was watching, and he was not displeased. Straightening, the Imperial stretched – praying in full armour was not comfortable – and walked over to Gorgoth, who was examining the much smaller shrine to Stendarr off to the side.

"You should get some rest," the warrior-shaman told him, turning to regard him with en even glance. Beyond his slight bow of the head at the briefing earlier, there had been not a hint of deference from the Orc, an attitude that the ex-priest had wholly expected; this was Gorgoth, after all. "It's past midnight. We'll be marching before the sun is fully up."

The Imperial nodded agreement. "I doubt I'll get used to sleeping in armour any time soon," he muttered. "Speaking of armour, I thought you'd be wearing something heavier."

In reply, the Orc waved a hand in the vague direction of a shadowed corner. Lying there was heavy plate armour that could only have belonged to him; the breastplate looked to be over two inches thick. "I'll put it on before battle." His eyes met Martin's. "I will walk to the battlefield with you and meet my horsemer there. I'll be saving my magical energies for the Great Gate, but you never know what might happen." The warrior-shaman could probably have suppressed the first Gate almost by himself, but they agreed that getting the Great Sigil Stone was all-important and took priority.

Phillida walked over, sighing as he worked his neck. "I'm not as young as I used to be," he grunted. "Everything's laid, and as long as the alarm's raised promptly, everything should go well come dawn. I'll be getting some sleep on a bedroll the priest set up for me."

"I will be fine for a while. There are a few things I have to clear up." Gorgoth turned to regard Martin levelly. "But you should definitely get some sleep. You're not used to campaigning."

"You're right there." The future Emperor looked around, and one of his tireless bodyguards pointed him towards a bedroll one of them had set up for him near the altar. He smiled in thanks and nodded to the other two before approaching the bedroll, loosening his armour and removing his sword belt before lying down, accepting that he wasn't about to get comfortable any time soon. Sleep was not long in coming; it had been a long day, and his responsibilities seemed to grow heavier with every passing minute. A few times he woke to the muttering of low voices, but it was probably just the bodyguards talking amongst themselves as their shifts changed or Gorgoth receiving yet another visitor.

He was woken after a few hours by an insistent hand shaking his shoulder. "It's time, sire," came the quiet voice of Captain Renault, her face hard to pick out in the dim shadow of the Chapel as she leaned over him. "The alarm has been sounded. It's almost dawn, and Dagon is attacking."

Blinking a few times, Martin quickly sat up before hauling himself to his feet. There was already a flurry of activity going on around him; Phillida was sending off several messages, and Lurog was helping Gorgoth into his plate armour. Wondering if either of the Orcs had slept, the ex-priest waited calmly while the helmetless Renault made sure his armour was tight and prepared for battle. He could not miss the worry evident on her face. "Are you sure-"

"Yes, Cassandra," he replied sharply, cutting her off as she started to ask the same question again. "There is no turning back now." She grunted and checked the tightness of his sword belt with more force than was strictly necessary. He sighed and softened his voice; she, too, probably hadn't got much sleep. "This isn't the end. I have no intention of dying."

The Breton stepped back and looked up at him, shaking her head and looking up into his eyes sadly. "I only wish I had more than one life to give for you, my Emperor." As quickly as it had gone, her professional reserve was back, and she drew herself up standing to attention. "I will muster the Imperial Bodyguard. We will stand ready, sire, through blood and fire." She saluted and turned on her heel, marching out of the Chapel.

Heavy boots ringing on the stone floor distracted Martin from his bodyguard's retreating back, and he turned to regard Gorgoth, now clad in the most fearsome – and heaviest – plate armour the ex-priest had ever laid eyes on. In the dim, barely-lit Chapel, the Imperial thought he could catch the slightest gleam of cold yellow eyes behind the helmet's frowning eye-slits. A sword belt of steel links had replaced the silver-worked leather belt, but all his weapons were in the same positions, all ready to be drawn within a second. "It might be early, but still expect cheering crowds," said the warrior-shaman, his heavily accented voice harder to understand than usual due to the distortion caused by his helmet. "Word will have spread quickly last night, and they won't want to miss a chance to show you their love. They rarely do."

The ex-priest rolled his shoulders and fingered his own helmet. He wouldn't put it on, not yet. If the crowds would be there as Gorgoth thought, then they deserved to see his face as well as his armour. He blinked as a torch was suddenly lit, swiftly followed by several more. Primate Falvius was magically lighting them, stifling a yawn as he marched up and down the Chapel. General Phillida was pulling on his gauntlets, nodding as he said a few words to Vignar. Picking up his helmet, he walked over to Martin, bowing his head slightly. "The army is heading out, my Emperor," he said. "I suggest we do the same. The first wave of Daedra has probably been engaged if they haven't been already, but we'll have time before the true attack starts. Not much, though. It's just under a mile to the south. Close."

Nodding, Martin put his hand on Goldbrand's hilt. "It's time." Phillida smiled and donned his helmet, the purple plume hanging down to his shoulder blades. All three of them – general, warlord and Dragonblood – turned for the exit together.

The tip of the sun was peeking over the eastern horizon as they left the Chapel, its golden rays already starting to banish the grey of the pre-dawn. It also provided illumination enough for them to see the greeting that awaited them. Gorgoth had been right; the streets might not have been packed, but many had defied the early hour to line the path their Emperor would take towards the South Gate. As he emerged from the Chapel, unmistakeable in his armour, a mighty cheer arose, shaking snow from the rooftops. People – mostly Nords and Imperials, but several other races were represented – from every corner of Bruma had come to cheer their Emperor to his battle, and to show that no matter what happened, they were behind him. Soldiers not going to the battle were ostensibly preventing them from spilling out into the Emperor's path, but most of them were cheering, as well.

The Imperial they were cheering stopped and smiled. He knew the importance of pressing on, but these were _his_ people; they were showing that they believed in him; they trusted him; they loved him. They deserved more than just a view of him as he swept past stony-faced. He raised a clenched fist to the heavens, and the cheers redoubled. At Phillida's urging, they started to make their way down the Chapel steps to the path they would take, the adulation of the crowd bringing yet more inhabitants of Bruma to urge their Emperor onward. Martin barely noticed Phillida's bodyguard - fifty strong – falling in behind their general to walk in a column alongside his own bodyguard, consisting of sixty of the Blades.

As they passed through the streets, the cheers turned to chanting, urging them onwards. Martin's name rose into the night air, chanted by hundreds of eager voices. Few knew much more than Gorgoth's name, but they cheered him as well, and Phillida, and even the soldiers behind them. Eager hands thrust through the protective line of guards, handing hastily-picked winter flowers to those who would soon be painting themselves red with the blood of their enemies. The Blades and legionarys took them with genuine smiles, returning the salutes of the crowd, but they knew in their hearts that many of them might soon be dead. With that grim knowledge, their smiles soon faded as they marched swiftly on.

Soon they reached the South Gate, the sounds of the crowd fading behind them as they left under the watchful eyes of the large company that had been charged to hold it to the last man. Several of those eyes were envious, others relived, but all of them showed some kind of pride or encouragement. As the Emperor's party past out of the Gate, they noticed the camp around Bruma emptying, thousands of soldiers marching south towards the red glow of the Oblivion Gate. All made way for their leader, their general and their hero, smiles flashing across their grim faces as they passed.

Martin felt a mixture of nerves and anticipation as they approached what would be the battlefield, the sky above slowly turning black, a fiery red spiderweb cracking it as far as the eye could see. He noticed that he was clutching the hilt of Goldbrand in a tight grip and forced himself to relax. They walked off the Silver Road, angling to the west, coming to a halt on the crest of a small hill.

The Oblivion Gate had been positioned slightly off-centre in a flat area of ground, bordered by low hills all around. The flat, open ground was ideal for a battleground; their entire army could position themselves on the flat before the Gate, while their archers were close enough to take advantage of the elevation offered by the hills. Ankle-deep snow covered the entire area, but more interesting were the bodies strewn around the Gate. They were too far off for Martin to discern individuals, but the initial Daedric sortie had been beaten back with few Imperial casualties. When no task force was sent in, the Daedric commander would probably sense the difference. Hopefully.

Already, hundreds of soldiers were pouring onto the flatland, directed and harangued by their captains. The soldiers who had dealt with the initial threat had withdrawn to about a hundred paces away from the Gate, and it was another two hundred paces from them to the base of the hill. More than enough room to manoeuvre if they had to. The ex-priest noted Phillida nodding in approval.

"Good ground," he muttered, turning to Martin. "I've got to organise the men; the entire army will be here in under half an hour, though the fight will have started before that. But take this time and use it wisely." He leaned closer. "Soldiers fight better with inspiration burning in their hearts. Show them who they're fighting for, sire, and tell them why." Clapping a hand on Martin's shoulder, he nodded significantly and peeled off, jogging away and already bellowing orders, making himself clearly heard over the multitude of horns that were blowing.

"Make them fight for something more than their lives," advised Gorgoth, not taking his eyes from the Gate. "I must go and meet my horsemer. Fight well, Emperor, and look for my return. I will not be long in Oblivion." He saluted, fist to heart, and withdrew, Lurog shadowing him.

Martin took a deep breath, sensing Captain Renault stepping up beside him. "You can guard me to the front, but I will address the men alone," he told her, fully expecting some kind of argument. To his surprise, she merely nodded, gesturing to the Imperial Bodyguard. They turned and marched off to find the position that Phillida had assigned them, ready to charge into battle wherever the fighting looked the most desperate. And Martin would be leading them in that desperate charge. Sighing, he started off towards the Gate, Renault walking by his side, her head swivelling. She had donned her helmet as soon as they'd left Bruma, but he would not; not yet. They would see the face of the man they would fight and die for.

A narrow gap split the ranks as he passed through, closing up again after him. Men and mer on either side regarded him with warm, tight smiles; the tension in the air was evident. All the time, thousands more men were pouring to the battlefield from their camps in and around Bruma. As he reached the front line, Renault stopped, but the man who would be Emperor continued onward, directly towards the Gate. When he was fifty paces from it, he turned.

His army stood before him, a long unbroken line stretching from one border of the flatland to the other. Thousands were there already, and the rest were hurrying into their places in the ranks. Behind the infantry was the reserve infantry detachment meant for the Great Gate, and behind them were the thousand archers, in position on the hills. At either end were the battlemages; already, some had spells glowing in their hands, ready to fling. Phillida and his bodyguard stood atop the highest point he could find, with a clear view of the battle, and the ex-priest thought he could see his Blades nearby. Gorgoth's cavalry had not yet arrived, but they would not be needed until the advanced stages.

Banners were everywhere, denoting the cities of Cyrodiil, the emblem of a mercenary company, even a few sigils of minor lords from around the Empire who had answered his call. There were differences everywhere he looked; Imperial Guardsmen stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Khajiit in light leather armour, who in turn contrasted with burly Nords in full plate armour adorned with animal fur. Everywhere there were differences, men and mer from all corners of the Empire, yet in this moment they were all united by one cause, one man; they would fight for their lives, fight for Tamriel, and fight for their Emperor. Martin felt a surge of pride lift his heart as he regarded his army; they were here for _him_, to fight for him, to die for him.

He raised a hand, and the noise quieted; horns stopped blowing, and idle conversation – what there was of it – came to a halt. There were still orders and the sound of men moving, of course, but he could talk over them. Weaving complex magicka into his throat, he lowered his hand and spoke, his voice magnified by magic so that it would carry to each and every soldier on the field of battle.

"Soldiers of Tamriel, I am your Emperor." If the power of his voice had stunned them, none of them showed it; faces beyond the front rank were indistinct at this distance, but almost all of them were turned towards him, hanging off his every word. "I am Martin Septim, last remaining heir of Uriel Septim." He paused, his gaze sweeping over them. He had not practised or even planned this speech; Steffan had told him that while political speeches were rehearsed, Uriel V had never planned a speech given to his troops. "You all know why you are here. Dagon seeks to invade Tamriel, to make it his personal hunting ground, to make all of you live in fear!" A hint of anger was now evident in his voice, and he made no effort to control it. "Dagon will make hunting you his sport, and he will not rest until all of Nirn is a wasteland, a dying ground, a place without hope!" He paused again, looking at his men, his warriors. "That will _not_ happen! Not while _I_ am Emperor! This is _my_ Empire, and Dagon has no place here!"

A cheer rose at that, but Martin was not finished. He placed a hand on Goldbrand's hilt, his face grim, and waited for the last cheer to die. "You all know what you have to do, and you all know it will not be easy. Many of you will die this day. By the end, your shields will be shattered, your swords will be bloody, and your arms will ache from over-use." Almost unconsciously, the fingers of his free hand ran over his helmet and his potions; some would heal his wounds, some would restore his magical energies. All around, there were grim faces, knowing the risk but prepared to do their duty to the end. Martin's voice rose again. "But there will be no surrender! You all know what happened at Kvatch! Will you let the Daedra do the same to Bruma? To Tamriel?" There was no answer; he neither needed nor wanted one. "Warriors of Tamriel, stand with me, and fight, to stop that happening! Fight, for your brothers in arms! Fight, for your homes and your families!_ Fight for freedom, and for Tamriel_!" Goldbrand rasped from its sheath, its brilliant light making the Gate behind him seem dim and dull in comparison. Roars burst from thousands of throats, cheering for their Emperor, shouting defiance at the Daedra.

Martin smiled grimly as he lowered Goldbrand and dispelled his magic, all the nerves and worrying that had plagued him in the past now replaced with determination. He started back towards the ranks, and they parted for him, soldiers on either side raising their arms in salute and chanting his name. Captain Renault fell in beside him, and he thought he glimpsed an approving smile behind the cheekguards of her helmet. Most of the army had now turned up; there was still about a quarter still to come from where they had camped north of Bruma, but they were ready. As the Emperor reached his bodyguard, the Blades drew their katanas and saluted him, fierce proud smiles visible on their faces. He raised Goldbrand to return their salute; he would not sheath the Daedric blade until the battle was won.

"A good speech, sire," commented Renault as he turned back towards the battlefield. "Uriel V himself could not have done better." No matter how much her professional reserve tried to hide it, there was pride in her voice as she turned to stand beside him. "That's got them champing at the bit. Now all we need is for the Daedra to show up." The Breton's katana was in her hand, her shield firmly strapped to her left forearm. Moving closer, she dropped her voice, just loud enough to be heard over the clamour below them. "No matter what happens, Martin, it is an honour to fight by your side."

At another time, he might have been shocked by her actually using his name for once, but now he just nodded. His reply died in his throat as a warning shout went up. Daedra were starting to pour from the Gate. Straightening his back, Martin pulled his helmet from his belt and donned it, glaring down at the invaders of his Empire. "So it begins," he muttered.

* * *

Aerin and the archers all around her drew fletchings to cheeks without hesitation, the points of their arrows unwavering. The commander of the archers, a grizzled one-eyed Imperial Legionary called Decimus Varus, waited only a second before giving the order. "Archers, fire at will!" he roared, his gravelly voice swiftly drowned out by the snap of a thousand bowstrings as a thousand arrows flew upwards before descending on their targets. Aerin did not bother following the flight of her arrow; she was already drawing her second and loosing. She nocked, drew and loosed, nocked, drew and loosed, the rate of fire quickly starting to tire her arms, but she was one with the arrow; focused, unforgiving. There would be no mercy for these invaders.

As the first volley slammed into the Daedra, dozens died instantly, feathered by scores of arrows each. Scamps, clannfear, hungers, Spider Daedra, even the ferocious daedroth; all suffered under that relentless storm. Within moments, the area around the Gate was strewn with thousands of arrows and dead and dying Daedra, yet more pushed on into Tamriel, pushed onwards to their death. Only the rocky Storm Atronachs and the solid Frost Atronachs were making any headway, yet even they were falling, the icy demons shattering under the weight of hundreds of shafts. And more still came.

Aerin's mind registered another order being barked by a different voice, and the battlemages joined in, bolts of lightning and balls of ice and fire striking down the targets that shrugged off the arrows. The mages were not throwing their entire power into the battle yet, far from it; they were just ensuring that no Daedra got more than thirty paces from the Gate. Down below them, the infantry cheered on their comrade's efforts, knowing that every passing minute without melee engagement was saving more of their lives. All of this was lost to Aerin; she was one with Trueshot, nocking, drawing, loosing.

"Archers, slow rate of fire!" The Bosmer grunted at Varus's bellowed command, but she knew the sense behind it; keep up that initial pace for long and many of them would run out of arrows before the second Gate opened. She forced herself to slow down, to spend more time picking her targets. Beside her, Merandil was doing exactly the same thing; the Altmer had removed his helmet for better vision, but the situation prevented much idle talk. Sweat started to trickle down the Wood Elf's back, tickling her spine; it was cold and she had shrugged off her cloak, but the heat of battle was starting to take hold.

"All battles are hot," grunted Merandil, almost as though he had read her thoughts. "Even when the battles are in places that don't know summer, they're already hot."

"I wouldn't know," growled Aerin in response, picking out a flailing daedroth and shooting at it; she might have hit it, but twenty arrows striking the Daedra at the same time made it difficult to be sure. "This is my first one."

"You'll remember it," replied the Altmer, not pausing in his firing. "I remember every battle I've been in. I forget why sometimes, but never what it was like." He shot a quick sideways glance at her. "Even if you get to my age, Aerin – and that's old for you Bosmer – you'll remember this."

"Nice ta know," she muttered, pausing for a moment to check her arrow supply. Every fletcher in Bruma had donated their entire stock to the battle, and she had been one of the lucky ones. She had three quivers with thirty arrows each, two on her back and one on her sword belt. Making a few quick estimations, she realised that she'd already used twenty arrows. Grunting in frustration, she nocked, drew and loosed again, further decreasing her rate of fire. The last thing she wanted was to have to draw her swords and wade in with the infantry because she had run out of arrows. Her arms were aching, but she ignored them; soon enough, there were going to be soldiers on the front lines with worse than aches. If aching arms meant less Daedra for Ilend and her friends to face, then she would shoot until her arms dropped off.

Several minutes passed, and still the stream of daedra continued unabated. Sometimes a squad of Dremora slipped out of the Gate, their heavy plate armour protecting them from the arrows and giving their mages long enough to throw a few fireballs. But these were futile gestures against an overpowering force; all the fireballs were blocked by magical shields long before they reached the Imperial forces, and soon various destructive magics would slaughter the Dremora before they could advance further.

One of Aerin's quivers was completely empty, and she had paused to rest for a few seconds when the second Gate opened. She had never seen a Gate open directly before, and it wasn't something she would soon forget. A rushing, roaring sound filled her ears, and part of the plain lit up, a gigantic flame flashing into existence and burning with a savage brightness to rival Goldbrand. Blinking and holding up her arm to shadow her eyes, the Bosmer was left with a purple afterimage across her vision as the flame died, and in its place stood a new portal, its obsidian arms embracing the fiery inferno through which Daedra were already pouring. It was on the opposite side of the plain to the other Gate; the size of the Imperial army and the hills anchoring their left and right meant that there was no danger of being outflanked, but they were now facing double the amount of Daedra.

"Archers, pick your targets and fire at will!" roared Varus, glaring down towards the second Gate. Aerin raised Trueshot once again and fired yet another arrow towards the new target, which was slightly further away from her than the first Gate. Magic filled the air as the battlemages began to truly get involved, their fire, ice and lighting striking down at both gates, shattering Daedra and halting the attack. Corpses were already piled high around the first Gate, and the attack from the second was faring little better, but even Aerin knew that this resistance couldn't continue; ten more minutes of throwing this much effort at the Daedra and the archers would have few arrows left, and many of the weaker battlemages would begin eating into their stock of potions. But that wasn't her problem to worry about; all she had to think of was nocking, drawing and loosing.

* * *

As soon as the second Gate had opened, Ilend had expected the order to charge to come within minutes. It was at least ten minutes later, by his reckoning, and the order had yet to come. He was standing in the front line near Captain Burd, the commander of this detachment, and he noticed the Nord often twisting his head to stare up at the hill behind them as though silently questioning why the order hadn't been given yet. Ilend himself was focused on the Daedra dying in front of him; he was on the left flank of the army, facing the second Gate, and the Daedra were being cut down not twenty paces from him. The volume of arrows had decreased, but the battlemages were still managing to suppress both Gates. Working his neck to prevent his muscles locking, the Imperial checked his helmet strap for the umpteenth time before turning his head sideways slightly to regard Menien Goneld. The older ex-guardsman had no helmet and was clad only in the leather armour purchased in Bruma yesterday, but his longsword was steady. He wouldn't last long against the lowliest of Dremora, but at least he would die fighting.

"What are we waiting for?" growled a voice behind him. Ilend curtly told the man to shut up. He'd been put in command of a squad of forty men, most of them guardsmen from the cities, and now they were in a tight formation around and behind him, along with all the other such groups that made up the thousand-plus men of the left detachment. The voice grew silent, but the Guildsman couldn't help echoing the question in his own head. What _were_ they waiting for? If the battlemages were to have any magicka left by the end of the battle, the infantry needed to relieve the pressure on them and close with the enemy. What was Phillida doing?

Just as his hand twitched towards his sword hilt for the hundredth time, a cacophony of horns broke out from the hill, and Ilend grunted. Burd wasted no time in sweeping his claymore from his back, waving it above his head before levelling it to point at the Gate ahead of them. "Soldiers, _advance_!" he bellowed, his voice heard clearly over the sounds of spells flying over his head. A cheer went up as the army surged forward, Ilend adding his own battle cries as he drew his longsword and led his men forward into the fray. The arrows slowed to a trickle, and the battlemages started picking their targets; they would have to be much more careful now, to avoid hitting their own. But all thought as to what was happening behind him was lost to Ilend as the Imperial and Daedric ranks rushed towards each other.

It was a clannfear that reached Ilend first; he brought his shield up and charged into it, knocking both of them off balance. Menien lunged forward and sliced off one of its claws, giving Ilend the opportunity to cut its throat open before kicking it aside and plunging into the fray. The madness had begun.

All around him were the shouts and screams and the clash of steel on steel, all the sounds of battle and death, but the Imperial blocked it all out and focused on the enemies in front of him. A scamp hissed and swung at him with both hands, sharp claws reaching out to rake his face, but he sidestepped and swept his blade upwards through its chest, already turning away to parry the downward slash of a Dremora's blade. Bashing his shield into the Kynaz's chest, the Guildsman pushed it away before focusing his magicka through his sword the way Gorgoth had taught him. Thrusting the weapon at his enemy's face, a fireball shot out of the tip, blowing half the surprised Dremora's head apart. Ilend made a mental note to reserve most of his magicka for healing; that spell had drained him more than a normal fireball would have.

There was no time to think more; a daedroth rampaged through the Imperial lines to his right, scattering several soldiers with a single blow despite an arrow jutting from its shoulder. As it moved past him, the Imperial dropped to one knee to smoothly hamstrung it, letting his comrades deal with it as it fell and turning to find the next enemy. Another clannfear leapt into the air, beak stabbing for his face. He ducked then rose, driving his blade upwards through its gut with enough power to break through the tough leathery skin on the other side. Swiftly pressing his foot down on the fallen corpse, he yanked the Daedric sword free and swiftly back-pedalled, raising his shield to ward off a scamp's wild lunge. A Redguard in the uniform of an Anvil guardsman moved in and sliced the lesser Daedra open from neck to groin.

Sweat was already pouring down his back, and the blood was pumping around his veins; he had only been in battle for a few minutes, but there would be no time for respite; only brutal, relentless combat. Even so, in a brief few seconds where there was no enemy to fight, he found himself noting things; as Phillida had predicted, there were few Dremora leading from the front, and there were also Daedra in amongst them that he had never seen before. As tall as a Bosmer, they had brown skin pulled tightly over a slender skeletal frame, attacking with claws of horn and a long, deadly tongue; he supposed they were hungers sent by Boethia, but that didn't matter; Daedra were Daedra, and they died just the same as the others. Ilend's sword sent more than one of their hideous heads rolling from their bony necks.

The Gate seemed closer than it had been when the battle was first joined; were they closer, or was it just his imagination? Certainly, no ground had been given to the invaders. Ilend's chainmail had already been scarred in two places, and blood ran down his sword arm from a shallow gash on his shoulder, but he was faring better than many of his comrades; Daedra were dying by the score, but so were the mortals, and unlike their enemies they would not rise again.

A daedroth burst through the crush of Daedra just ahead of him, charging forward. Two arrows instantly took it in the chest, but it shrugged them off as though they were meaningless pinpricks. Ilend instantly rolled to the side, coming up with his sword raised, slashing at its leg. It stumbled and swiped down at him, but he had already thrown himself backwards before scrambling to his feet. The crocodile-headed Daedra turned away to find easier prey just as Menien appeared from the haze and struck down at its tail. Roaring in pain as the old Imperial's sword cut deep, the behemoth turned and lunged, its jagged teeth closing around Menien's throat, lifting him off the ground and slamming him back down with most of his neck missing, his blood already starting to stain what little white snow remained underfoot. _At least the old man died well_, thought Ilend before sheer animal rage pushed all rational thinking aside.

Yelling wordlessly, the Imperial ran forward and thrust upwards with all the strength of a soldier burning with hatred and fuelled by the fires of vengeance. The daedroth choked as it collapsed with the Guildsman on top of it, its half-severed tail still thrashing as he slid off it, ignoring the blood staining his sword from tip to guard. Everywhere, the Daedric defence was stiffening as the mortals grew tired, forcing them back on the defensive, pushing forward. Ilend threw himself back into the swirling maelstrom of the front lines, the edge of his shield cutting a clannfear's face in two before he decapitated a scamp. A hard sword blow to the side of his helmet sent him reeling, and he was only saved by the rapid intervention of Tarad, the bronze-clad Redguard cutting the Dremora's sword arm off before thrusting his greatsword into the Kynaz's chest. It appeared that the young Guildsman might actually be as good as he thought he was.

Shaking his head, Ilend found no respite; the Daedric forces were pushing on relentlessly. Fresh men from the rear ranks replacing those who fell on the front ranks of the mortal army would hold for a time, but against the tireless, immortal forces of the enemy, there was no easy victory. All Ilend could hope for was that Dagon opened his new Gates as quickly as possible; once the Great Sigil Stone was in Gorgoth's hands and the Gates closed, it would be a mopping-up operation. But they had to survive first. Gritting his teeth, he fought on. _Divines, if you're up there watching, we could use some help_.

* * *

"Come on, Dagon. What are you waiting for?" It had been half an hour since the second Gate had opened, and Phillida's eyes were narrowed. He had expected the Daedric Lord to expand his assault by now, bringing the forces of more than two Gates to bear. He still had twenty-five hundred men uncommitted on the battlefield, not to mention the five hundred Orcish cavalry that now stood silently behind the archers, the dark steel armour of mer and horse barely glimmering despite the bright fire of the Gates. The archer's firing was sporadic now; he'd sent men to the city to requisition more arrows, but there were few enough already. Some of the battlemages had stopped fighting, resting to restore their magical reserves and to keep themselves in fighting condition; casting intensively was tiring work. Many were still throwing magic at the Daedra, but they had to pick their targets carefully.

As far as Phillida could see, the infantry's lines were holding well at each Gate, but the Daedra had advanced far enough for their reinforcements to be able to get through without hindrance. It was good that they could only exit from one side; his troops had them surrounded for now, and that was infinitely better than allowing the enemy free rein to use the entire battlefield. But with most of his other forces earmarked for Gates yet to appear, the General could not yet send reinforcements to the already engaged detachments no matter how bad their losses. There was nothing to raise alarm yet – casualties had been expected – but if Dagon made him wait much longer...

With perfect timing, a giant flash of fire appeared on the battlefield, this one all the way to the right, past the first Gate, towards Bruma. Before the portal had even finished stabilising, Phillida had sent the order for Oreyn's detachment to engage the new threat. The archers fired with renewed vigour as they were commanded to focus their entire attention on the new Gate, holding the Daedra back and inflicting losses until the infantry could get there. The General knew all too well that their ammunition was running low.

His attention was diverted by a massive horse halting in front of him. Broad and muscular, its front, rear and flanks were all protected by dark steel plate armour, which served the dual purpose of making the combination of horse and rider heavy enough to shatter any shield wall. The Orc sitting astride it – the distinctive helmet marked him as Gorgoth – leaned half out of his saddle towards the Imperial. "General, with your permission, I will move my cavalry around to the front. It is obvious as to where the Great Gate will form." The warrior-shaman was right; there was a large empty area between the first and second Gates.

Phillida nodded. "Go, Gorgoth. You know what to do." He trusted the Orc as a military commander; he would know what to do and how to do it. Grunting in response, the Orsimer gathered the reins and signalled to his men, bellowing an order so loud that the General's ears rang. His horsemer followed him, the force of five hundred splitting evenly to flow around the detachments of archers and the reserve infantry to form up behind the battle, a long line eight deep with Gorgoth at its head in the centre. The banner of Orsinium and Gorgoth's Steel Fist still waved proudly in the air; the infantry's banners had mostly lowered to concentrate on the battle, but the cavalry often had no such problems.

Tearing his eyes away from the Orcs, Phillida grunted in satisfaction; Oreyn's detachment had engaged the enemy and were containing them, though much longer and the battle for the third Gate would join the battle for the first and the two would become one. He sent orders for the battlemages to focus on the first and second Gates; the infantry down there would need the magical help more than Oreyn's fresh troops. Folding his arms, he settled back to wait once more. _Come on, Dagon. This is the chance you've been waiting for_.

* * *

After fighting through the Arena, through Sancre Tor, Miscarcand and several Oblivion Gates, Saliith had thought himself ready for a battle. He was wrong; it was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. The heat and blood and sweat and screams of battle were all things he'd felt before, but not like this. Nothing like this. But he had a job to do and he intended to do it; there was no time to be shocked or stunned. Already his twin shortswords were stained with Daedric blood, and the Argonian was forever darting through the chaos, seeking new targets, leaving dying and crippled Daedra in his wake.

He and Agronak, along with all the gladiators they'd brought from the Arena, had been placed in the forefront of Modryn Oreyn's command. Clearly, the Dunmer had thought them effective but ill-disciplined fighters, and aimed to use them to wear down the enemy before the regulars got involved. He had been right, but they were doing more than just wearing down; even the Daedra seemed to fear Agronak, who left death wherever he fought. Upon watching the half-Orc smoothly shift from foe to foe as if dancing, Saliith had felt a brief moment of relief that he had never had to fight him for the title of Grand Champion. But that moment was brief; fighting left little time for thinking about anything else.

A clannfear leapt at him, claws darting for his face, but Saliith was already ducking, thrusting upwards to disembowel the creature as it soared over his head. Wrenching his blade from its stomach as it landed, he turned to parry a Dremora's strike with both blades, staggering backward at the force of the blow. The Kynaz raised his war axe to try again, but the Argonian quickly recovered and darted back in, throwing himself against his shield and forcing his blade up into his opponent's armpit. Penetrating the Daedric plate – strong even at that weak point – took effort, but the Dremora stiffened, his axe dropping from his hand as Saliith reclaimed his shortsword and spun, kicking away from his dying foe.

Dagon appeared to have realised that flooding the battlefield with his lesser quality troops wasn't working, and had sent in his Dremora; the Grand Champion could see them everywhere now, striking into the Imperial ranks all around him, capitalising on the holes in their ranks already torn by their less disciplined brethren. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Huzei and Neesha, each watching the other's back as they fought closely together. He'd told them to fight as though they were joined at the hip; if they were separated, they would die quickly, but together they stood a chance, even if they were relative novices.

A bestial roar jerked his head around and he threw himself to the side to avoid a daedroth lumbering towards him. It went straight past him, but the squad of eight Dremora in its wake were not so ignorant. Four peeled off to attack him just as he sprang back up from the wet ground, barely having enough time to get back on his feet before they were on him. He contorted his body to dodge several of their blows before rolling forward, his blade rasping across plate greaves before he came to his feet again, spinning to throw a knife into the throat of one. His comrades ignored him as they charged the Argonian, pushing him further from his allies, back towards the Gate. He was aware of allied soldiers desperately fighting and dying around him, their blood spraying over the already sodden battlefield.

But while the title of Grand Champion might not count for as much as people thought it did, it still meant something. Saliith had not fought all the way up through the Arena by being vulnerable, easy to kill. He danced around his pursuers, managing to put their backs to their Gate once again, manoeuvring away from the greater danger while receiving nothing more serious than a cut on his forearm. But still the Dremora pressed on; they were not tireless, he knew, but it certainly seemed like they were. Their armour bore several scars now, but it was so thick and durable that his slashes were generally worse than useless.

Abruptly, blood fountained from the neck of one as a shortsword pierced all the way through his neck. He staggered into his companions, and Saliith seized the opportunity, leaping forward and driving one shortsword into the leader's chest with both hands behind it. Twisting away from the corpse as it fell, his left his sword buried in its chest and struck at the other Kynaz, his blade smashing into the side of the Dremora's helmet with such force that he staggered, then jerked forward as another shortsword was forced into his back. The Grand Champion sidestepped the falling body and wrenched his other shortsword from the leader's corpse, nodding in thanks to the two young Argonians who had taken the Dremora in the rear. "You're learning."

"We have to," growled Huzei, turning and glaring at the Gate. "Who knows-" He was cut off by a yell of warning from his sister.

Spinning, the Green Tornado plunged one of his blades into the body of a scamp, but a clannfear bounded right past him and hurled itself at Neesha, her defence rising a fraction too slowly. The Daedra's deadly claws raked her stomach, blood spurting from gaping wounds. Huzei's throwing knife took the creature in the shoulder and Saliith moved over and finished it off, but all he had time for was to throw a healing potion in Neesha's direction and turn to face the onslaught.

He and Huzei fought in tandem, slicing off claws, severing limbs, hamstringing rampaging daedroth. Saliith shouted as he fought, a wordless cry of anger and defiance directed at no one in particular, not caring as the blood of a butchered scamp splashed over his tongue and teeth. Neesha staggered to her feet and threw the empty potion bottle at a Dremora, still fighting despite her scale armour stained with a worrying amount of her own blood. "Get back!" Saliith roared to them as he seized a Dremora's weapon hand with his own, grappling with it. "Get back to our lines! I'm not having you hatchlings die on me!" The Dremora spitting in his face drew his attention, and he had no idea whether they obeyed or not, but by the time he had stabbed the Daedra in the stomach and turned, he was alone with his enemies.

Adrenaline pumped through the Argonian's veins, masking the weakness of blood loss from several wounds and the fatigue from fighting so hard for so long. Bellowing curses in his native language, he threw himself at the Daedra, their blood mingling with his own and painting him red from head to foot. A scamp bit down into his forearm and refused to let go; he stabbed it and threw its body into the path of a daedroth. A hunger tried to grab him in a fatal embrace, but he chopped it in half with three good swings. Dremora surrounded him, and he lunged forward, trying to take as many as possible.

He barely felt the spear enter his stomach, but within a second he had grabbed the shaft and pulled it all the way through him, drawing his free arm back and swinging from the shoulder like his shortsword was a longsword. The Kynaz's neck opened, half-blinding him with his burning blood, but he no longer cared. A scimitar opened his shoulder to the bone, and he turned, his razor-sharp teeth darting for the Dremora's throat. Blood and flesh burned his teeth, his mouth, his tongue, but he no longer cared. If a Grand Champion of the Arena had to die, this was the way to do it.

* * *

The swirling chaos of battle made it impossible to pick out everything with the naked eye, but Phillida had come prepared. The looking-glass he was holding to his eye was well-made and exquisite, made by the finest craftsmer from Alinor; the Empire could afford to pay for the best. Through the glass he could make out individuals, see exactly how the fight was going at the front lines, get all the information he needed to make the necessary judgements. The glass was so fine that it was almost as though he was in the thick of the action himself; he could even see the blood spray as a clannfear tore open a Khajiit's chest.

It also made him aware that Dagon was no longer holding his Dremora back. They were now out of the Gates and fighting in force alongside their brethren, and the effect was notable; everywhere, the Imperial forces were being pushed back. The first and third Gates had effectively become one battle, the Daedra having linked up, though they were unable to break free of the ring of steel around them. Phillida grimaced. His army were fighting valiantly, fighting like lions, but hundreds had fallen already and still the numberless hordes of Oblivion were pouring in.

He was about to turn to Vignar to send yet another order when the western horizon appeared to explode with flame. Throwing up an arm to protect his eyes, the old Imperial staggered as the ground trembled beneath his feet. When he had recovered, a Great Gate stood between the first and second Gates, a massive portal bigger than both of them put together. Legions of Daedra were already pouring out onto the battlefield. Despite the situation, Phillida smiled; now things could finally get started.

* * *

As soon as the Great Gate had stabilised, Gorgoth had swung Blood King from his back, standing up in his stirrups and holding it aloft. "Orcs of Orsinium, _advance_!" he roared, his voice clearly audible over the sounds of battle and the crackle of magic. The creak of saddles and the thump of hooves heralded the movement of the five hundred cavalry as they spurred their mounts forward, quickly reaching a trot. Gorgoth rode at their head with Lurog to his right and the bannermer to his left, turning Rauzkh slightly so the horse's head pointed directly at the centre of the Great Gate.

Daedra were already pouring out of the entire width of the Great Gate in their hundreds, Daedra of every kind. Within seconds, they would outnumber not only his cavalry but also the thousand men Dion was leading in behind them. But these Daedra had most likely never faced a charge of Orcish heavy cavalry. He spurred Rauzkh to a gallop, the ground starting to tremble as his force emulated him. "Orcs of Orsinium, _charge_!" Five hundred lances lowered as he raised Blood King and bellowed a battle cry, a wordless roar of challenge swiftly taken up by five hundred others. The Daedric advance faltered, suddenly uncertain, but had no time to react as the Orcish charge thundered into them.

The first few ranks were thrown aside like shattered rag dolls as the cavalry broke through any resistance; the sheer weight of the heavily armoured Orc and horse meant that even the colossal daedroth were crushed under their hooves. Steel-tipped lances were thrust home with such power that even thick Daedric plate stood no chance of stopping them. Gorgoth, however, had no time to admire what his Orcs were doing; he'd seen it all before on a much bigger scale, and he had his own battle to fight. Blood King pulsed in his hand, its desire to taste blood in this glorious battle threatening to overwhelm him. It did not have to wait any longer.

He swung as soon as Rauzkh was clear of the first few ranks, the heavy head smashing into a Dremora with enough power to disintegrate most of him, ignoring the Daedric plate armour as though it were paper. The remnants of what had once been a fine immortal warrior slammed into nearby enemies with enough force to send them flying as well, but the warrior-shaman was already pushing on relentlessly, his mace rising and falling, his foes dying by the dozen. Gurbol would be trying to wheel the cavalry for another charge – difficult, in this situation – but Gorgoth had his own fight to worry about, and he had to get into the Great Gate as quickly as possible.

Rauzkh was already slowing, unable to force his way through the press of bodies now that his momentum was largely gone. Ignoring the Dremora rushing towards him, the warlord pushed his left hand forwards, palm outwards. Dozens of bolts of lightning flashed outwards, stabbing at whatever lay in front of them, arcing towards the Great Gate and cutting a passageway for him that was carpeted with twitching, burnt corpses. Spurring his mount onwards, the warrior-shaman clenched his left hand into a fist; the lightning stopped and in their place an explosion of pure energy forced the Daedra on either side of him reeling back. His eyes were locked on the Gate; there was no going back now, no distractions. Lurog and a few others would still be behind him, defending their lord right up to the fiery portal. Rauzkh would probably die a few seconds after Gorgoth left him to enter the Gate alone, but the old warhorse deserved a good death; he would give a good account of himself.

He was almost to the Great Gate. Letting his spell drop, the warrior-shaman leapt from Rauzkh, rolling forwards and finding his feet. Daedra surrounded him, more pouring from Oblivion all the time, but he brushed them aside magically and sprinted forward, careless of the weak blows from behind him that bounced off his plate armour and the usual magical shielding he was maintaining. With his own battle cry ringing in his ears, Gorgoth leapt into the massive portal.

The sensation of every inch of his body – outside and inside – being plunged into lava never got any easier to ignore, but within a few seconds he was out on the other side, running into a surprised Dremora. Barely keeping his balance, the warrior-shaman took one look at the enormous army surrounding him – with hundreds still flowing into the Gate just behind him – and raised a clenched left fist. Dark red-and-brown clouds started seeping out from between his fingers, the several Daedra trying to reach him held back by a telekinesis spell. One of the Dremora mages looked at the spell he was forming and stepped back, his orange eyes growing wide.

Their only warning was an abrupt shuddering beneath their feet. In a wide area just ahead of Gorgoth, the ground erupted, several huge chunks of rock propelled upwards and gouts of fire reaching up towards the tortured sky, immolating those who were not already dead. Within seconds, over a hundred Daedra had been destroyed; more would die when the rocks crashed back to earth, and they would be forced to go around both boulders and the crater to enter Tamriel. But that was now none of the warrior-shaman's concern. Replacing Blood King on his back, he jumped, Alteration magic propelling him far up into the air. Reaching the height of his leap – the magic had limits – and evading to chunks of rock as they fell back towards the massed army, Gorgoth focused his mind on the air under his feet, forcing it to support him, forcing it to take his weight as well as any rock would. He could not maintain such a spell for long – Thaumaturgy was not one of his stronger skills – and it was by no means levitation, but it gave him enough time to survey his surroundings.

He was standing forty feet above a vast rocky plain that hosted thousands upon thousands of Daedra, easily enough to overwhelm Phillida's army if they could all be brought to bear. A few arrows and fireballs skittered off the shield he had woven under himself, but the Daedra below had their orders; they were still pouring into Tamriel, leaving the defenders to deal with this intruder. More interesting to the warrior-shaman was the rest of the world he was in. Four towers of obsidian flanked a long pool of lava, beyond which stood a vast column of obsidian which was surely the Sigil Keep. The only way to it was on the two paths around the lava, opening him up to attack from the defenders surely stationed in the towers. But there was another way, one that Dagon might not have considered possible.

In the pool of lava, slowly marching towards the Great Gate, was Dagon's most feared weapon, the weapon that had brought ruin to Kvatch. The Siege Crawler was long and narrow, shaped much like a battering ram. It moved forward slowly on thick legs of obsidian, reminiscent of a gigantic centipede. Its head – as large as one of the smaller Gates – was a glowing spiked orb, liquid magicka swirling around a Sigil Stone that was probably what powered the entire thing. No doubt its mission was to destroy Bruma as soon as the lesser Daedra had cleared a path, but Gorgoth had other plans for it. Gulping down a potion that partially restored his depleted magical energies, he started leaping towards it, covering the distance in several giant hops. The Crawler's head hissed and spat a stream of fireballs at him, dozens spouting from its mouth at a time, each big enough to lay waste to a tower on Bruma's wall.

Blocking such powerful projectiles for more than a few seconds was beyond him, so instead the warrior-shaman sent whirlwinds of telekinesis into their midst, sending them spraying in all directions, many in the direction of its own army. The few that were still a danger to him were blocked by webs of dispelling magic that made each fireball vanish as soon as they touched it. Braving the storm, the Orc completed his final leap, landing on the thick back of the Siege Crawler itself, a few feet behind its head. The fireballs stopped; apparently, it could not attack a target behind it.

Keeping his balance as the construct started to drag itself out of the lava and onto the plain, Gorgoth looked up at the vast Sigil Keep rising up in the distance ahead of him. Without hesitation, he started off down the Siege Crawler's back at a run.

* * *

Lurog watched his lord plunge into the Great Gate, watching him for only a second before turning away and striking down a Dremora attempting to hamstring Astakh. He'd wanted to follow Gorgoth into Oblivion, but had been quick to see logic; without magic, he would have to rely on Gorgoth to move quickly, and the warrior-shaman couldn't afford to spend any magical energy helping his Bloodguard to keep up with him. The Orsimer forced his warlord from his mind and plunged back into the glorious battle, the Gate to his back.

There was only a small knot of them, six Orcs who had followed their warlord to the last, one of them being the bannermer carrying the Steel Fist. They were far from where the cavalry and infantry were fighting the front lines of Daedra, but there was no point in wasting time and dying. Letting a battle cry fill his throat, Lurog booted Astakh towards safety, leaning down in his saddle to crush the head of a nearby clannfear. The warhorses themselves were weapons, breaking bones with steel-shod hooves and tearing faces open with strong teeth. Hewing himself a path with grim determination, the Bloodguard ignored the blow glancing off the armour of him and his horse, ignored the Orcs dying around him, ignored the front lines far from him. There was just him and his battle. _This_ was what he had been born for.

A savage smile split his face as yet another Dremora went down with his skull crushed by the Orc's mace. He bashed his shield into the face of a daedroth and swung his mace into its throat, already turning to deal with a hunger trying to wrench his foot from its stirrup. A forceful swing tore its repulsive face in two. Astakh reared as another daedroth threw itself in front of him, the warhorse's front legs kicking out, sending the Daedra staggering back into its comrades. In that moment of unbalance, a Dremora charged forward, ducking under Lurog's swipe and forcing his spear upwards into the massive horse's belly.

Snarling, the Orc threw himself from his dying horse, Astakh's scream ringing in his ears. He kicked the Dremora to the ground and caved his breastplate in with a single blow, turning to find Daedra all around him, a clannfear distracted enough to start feeding on the dying horse's steaming entrails. Roaring wordlessly, Lurog rushed to meet them, knowing that his death was imminent but not caring. White-hot rage bubbled up inside him, but he forced it down; going berserk would rob him of him of logical thought, and he might well die quicker. Instead, his anger was a cold thing; any Daedra managing to glimpse his eyes under his helmet would see cold golden orbs without mercy or remorse.

Knocking aside a scamp, the warrior kicked a Dremora to force him off-balance before swinging his mace up between his legs. As the Kynaz collapsed with a shattered spine, the Orc was already moving on, a whirlwind despite his plate armour, destroying Daedra left and right. Maybe they might even have remembered him from past incarnations; he had certainly felled many in Oblivion Gates before this battle, and Bloodguards were not chosen for weakness. Blocking a clannfear's wild lunge and throwing it off his shield into a Spider Daedra, he turned to smash aside a Dremora's defence. He never saw the battleaxe, swinging low from his right, until it was too late.

A lesser warrior might have frozen in shock or pain as the heavy half-moon blade punched through three layers of armour into his abdomen, but Lurog merely swung down at the arms that held it. The Xivilai staggered backwards, ignoring its ruined right arm as its left hand rose to summon another weapon. Lurog tried to follow, but the battleaxe's haft tangled in his legs, sending him stumbling to the ground. Tasting blood in his mouth, he dropped his mace and yanked the axehead free, but before he had made it to his knees a clannfear was on him, beak stabbing, claws scarring his helmet. He kicked it off and charged to his feet, feeling his life start to drain out of him along with the blood that was staining the front of his armour. Any attempt at reaching for the potions on his belt would mean his death. Instead, he swung the battleaxe one-handed, decapitating the clannfear and using his unbalancing to swing himself around, looking for another target.

The Xivilai still watched him, quietly considering as the weakened Orc was attacked by a pair of Dremora. He smashed one in the face with his shield and attempted to cleave the other in two, but his movements were slowing; his skilled opponent danced out of reach before darting forward. Lurog barely moved in time to prevent his enemy's stab penetrating his armpit, instead gaining a deep scar in his breastplate. Sweeping his foe's legs from under him, the Orc still had enough strength remaining to swing downwards and cut the Dremora's chest almost in two. Before he could even attempt to pull the axe out, he felt a blade punch through his backplate into his spine.

Collapsing to his knees, the Bloodguard snarled in defiance and jerked his shortsword from its scabbard. The edges of his vision were growing dim. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his eyes, he searched for a target within range, barely feeling another blade lance down through his pauldron into his chest. "To the last," he growled past a mouthful of blood, stabbing downwards, his shortsword pinning a Dremora's foot to the ground. He fought to stay on his knees, fought to resist the weakness that threatened to overcome him; blood was already spreading around him, staining the slush a deep red. Above him, the Xivilai stood, looking down at him with a triumphant gleam in his vivid orange eyes. His fully healed right arm flexed as he raised his enormous battleaxe in both hands.

As the axe descended, Lurog's last thought was of how honourable it was to die in such a battle.

* * *

Gnaeus had never been fond of battles. Many years ago, he'd been the scout who found battles; he'd rarely taken part in the battles itself. Good scouts were too valuable to risk in the front line. But now he was in the front line of a battle of a magnitude he'd never seen before. Of course, he'd seen bigger battles – much bigger, tens of thousands on each side – but he doubted any could match this for intensity. He'd only gained the time to think by stepping out of the front line for a few seconds to swig a healing potion. Even the very useful illusion created by the ring of Khajiiti didn't make him invulnerable; his chainmail was adequately-made but distinctly second-rate against Daedric steel. He'd only been in contact with the enemy for a few minutes, but it was clear that Dagon had sent his best from the Great Gate that was looming up ahead of him, dominating the sky.

Rolling his shoulders, the old Imperial hefted his broadsword and prepared to step back into the fray. One of the advantages of being in the last group to get to grips with the enemy was the quality of his allies; not far to his right were a cluster of about thirty Redguard Bronze Shields, who seemed quite ready and able to carve a path to the Gate by themselves if they felt the need. Ignoring them and turning his focus to what was ahead of him, the ex-hermit stepped over the falling body of a Cheydinhal guardsman and sliced through the claw of a clannfear, following it with a thrust the ended against the creature's frantically beating heart. Kicking the body aside, ignoring the spurt of blood that disappeared into the shimmering of his illusion, he stopped thinking and instead focused simply on staying alive.

Fortunately for him, it was hard to fight a mere shimmering in the air. Several Daedra thought there was nothing where he was standing, a notion they were disabused of by his blade, and others who might have caused trouble were dispatched when their attacks missed entirely. No matter how many he killed, however, Gnaeus was not blind to the fact that the Imperial advance had halted; in places the line was being pushed back. Ahead of him, over the heads of the attacking Daedra, he could see knots of Orcish horsemer charging around, leaving death wherever they went, but even their numbers were starting to thin, and they were too few to break up enough of the Daedric attack.

Ignoring them, the old Imperial focused instead on the Dremora approaching him cautiously. Gnaeus sprang forward in attack – it was always important to do what the enemy least expected – and aimed a downcut at the Kynaz's mace. His opponent spun to the side and attempted to smash his weapon into the ex-hermit's ribs, but the old man dodged with a spryness that defied his age and parried the blow, ignoring the shock that ran up his arm and kicking the Kynaz's legs from under him. A Khajiit sellsword darted out of the ranks to plunge his axe into the Dremora's chest before wrenching it free and springing back into position.

Grunting, Gnaeus fell back beside him and turned just in time to see a large fireball arcing towards his position. Growling a curse – there had been projectiles flying over their heads towards the Daedra all the time, but the enemy had their own battlemages – the old Imperial shoved his way out of the front line, sprinting for relative safety as fast as he could. The battlemages on the hill couldn't be expected to block everything coming their way.

The sound of the explosion reached his ears at the same time that a fist of air seemed to punch him in the back, throwing him face down in the slush. Coughing on the suddenly acrid air and attempting to clean the eye slit of his helmet of the half-melted snow, Gnaeus tried to draw breath back into his lungs as he rolled onto his back. A gaping, smoking crater was all that remained of at least twenty men, and Daedra were rushing into a exploit the sudden gaping breach in the Imperial line. Struggling to his feet, the ex-hermit barely found his breath before joining the rear-rankers charging in to attempt to plug the gap. A scamp leapt at him and he swiped at it almost absent-mindedly, already putting the lesser Daedra out of his mind as it fell shrieking, clutching at the guts spilling from its abdomen. A hunger barely had enough time to draw a thin arm back to strike him before he severed it at the shoulder, smoothly bring his blade around to stab the hissing Daedra where its liver would have been had it been human. Shoving its body out of the way, he barely had time to parry an overhead swing from a Dremora.

Gnaeus found himself forced onto the defensive, giving ground slowly as the Kynaz forced forwards. If the ex-hermit had been fully visible, he would probably have been dispatched in the first minute; his opponent was clearly a warrior of high rank, wielding both shield and mace with skill that had been honed by centuries of conflict. Twice their duel was interrupted by a sellsword staggering into their vicinity, and twice the Dremora killed them without breaking stride. Growling with frustration, the old Imperial found himself ignoring everything else around him as he focused on simply staying alive. He was already bleeding from a few minor cuts that had torn through his chainmail; his enemy's shield was pitted and scarred, but Gnaeus had yet to draw blood or land any telling blow.

A dull ache in the small of the ex-hermit's back forced him to realise that he was about to die. It wasn't lack of skill or experience - had he been thirty years younger he could probably have beaten the Dremora and still lasted the battle – but the fact was that he was no longer an in-demand sellsword in his prime. He was an old man dragged from a peaceful retirement to fight in a war more intense than any he'd previously fought in. As his muscles started to weaken and his breath came in shorter pants, the Imperial found himself wishing that he'd stayed on Whiterock to die peacefully, or better yet to have never left the mainland and died well in battle decades ago. Blinking sweat out of his eyes, he forced his back to stiffen; he would, at least, die knowing that he had done his best.

He barely got his broadsword up in time to block a powerful blow, and he staggered back, barely keeping his hold on his weapon as the shock of the mace's blunt force made his arm quiver. The Dremora spun and kicked him in the stomach, forcing all the remaining air from his lungs and doubling him over. Still managing to wheeze one final insult, Gnaeus looked up to see the mace head flashing towards his face. He could only watch as it suddenly jerked and missed him by inches, the Dremora collapsing in a heap with a blade through his armpit. Uriel Signus calmly planted his boot against the twitching Daedra's arm and wrenched his Daedric steel broadsword free. Pausing only to nod in his comrade's direction, the ageing mercenary turned and threw himself back into the fray, crossing blades with another Dremora.

The ex-hermit shook his head. "I'm too old for this crap," he muttered, forcing himself to stand upright. He had no time to get his breath back. Another Dremora to Uriel's right decapitated two sellswords at once with a broad-bladed claymore, rushing in to exploit the gap. Accepting the fact that he would die in this battle, sooner or later, Gnaeus stepped in to stab low at the Kynaz's midsection. The Dremora spun to parry his attack before smashing the hilt of his weapon into the Imperial's temple. Stunned, Gnaeus barely managed to stay standing; he could only watch his enemy turn and neatly slice upwards to sever Uriel's arm at the shoulder before bringing his blade back down and across to neatly disembowel the mercenary.

Managing to steady himself as the body of his saviour slumped to the ground, Gnaeus raised his sword to defend himself once again. Despite his impending death, despite the battle raging all around him, he still had time to recall that he had seen that blade, that particular face, before. Well, if he was going to die, it might as well be at the hands of one of the Dremora that Gorgoth liked to summon. "Come on, then," he growled under his breath, his voice lost almost instantly in the screams and the clash of arms.

Chaxil stepped forward, eyes flickering to his left and right before refocusing on his opponent. As he drew back his claymore, preparing to end yet another mortal life, the sky behind him flashed white. A lightning bolt scythed into the Daedric ranks, sending shattered bodies flying in all directions as the earth heaved beneath their feet, rolling thunder drowning out even the sound of battle for a second. The charred hulk of what once might have been a clannfear slammed into Chaxil's back, unbalancing him even further. Despite the assault on his senses, Gnaeus recovered in time to charge forward, a wordless shout torn from his throat as he rammed his sword into the staggering, disorientated Chaxil's abdomen with all the strength he had remaining. The Kynmarcher lurched, orange eyes growing wide with shock as the old Imperial released the hilt and drew his shortsword, forcing it sideways into the tough skin of the Dremora's upper neck.

Choking blood, the stricken Daedra shoved the Imperial away from him, not wasting time to claw at the blade in his neck. One hand still clutched his claymore, and his other fist struck at the ex-hermit's gut, doubling him over once again. Gnaeus barely raised his head in time to see the Kynmarcher put his remaining strength into one last slashing attack. Exhausted and weaponless, he could only attempt to twist away from the attack. Instead of slicing through his chest, the Daedric blade merely chopped through the upper arm just below his right shoulder, parting chainmail, flesh and bone before finally coming to a halt as the Dremora's strength started to fail him.

As Chaxil withdrew his weapon, weakly attempting to raise it to try again, the Imperial staggered backwards and fell to his knees, groaning at the pulses of agony threatening to overwhelm his senses. Gritting his teeth, he managed to stop himself from vomiting, attempting to blink away the haze of tears obscuring his vision. He'd felt pain before, of course, but nothing this severe for over four decades. Wondering why he wasn't dead yet, he slowly raised his head.

His would-be killer lay on his back a few paces in front of him, orange eyes still wide in shock even as they glazed over, staring at the throwing axe neatly embedded in his forehead. The sellsword who had thrown it – he would probably be a Nord, with that weapon – was standing over the fallen Dremora, fending off a scamp. Managing to drag himself to his feet, Gnaeus staggered back through the rear ranks to comparatively open space, not caring that he was leaving his weapons behind, not caring that the Imperial line seemed to be stretched thin enough to break at several points.

Finally finding a clear space, he sank to his knees, groaning and clutching his upper arm with his left hand. Blood leaked through his clutching fingers and stained the wet ground, attempting to turn the slush even redder than it already was. The old Imperial could see several bodies, both Daedric and mortal, lying on the ground nearby, but they might as well have been rocks for all the attention he paid them. Looking down at his right hand, he saw a glimmer of gold. The Ring of Khajiiti was a wide golden band with a massive ruby embedded in the circle of the ring; very useful, very valuable, and at the moment, very visible. Another groan burst from the old man's lips as he realised that the rest of him was also fully visible.

Craning his neck awkwardly so he could see, Gnaeus peeled his left hand away from the wound. Wincing at what he saw, he slowly took hold of his arm just below the massive gash and yanked. The few strands of tortured chainmail and skin that had held his arm together parted, and the ex-hermit looked on silently as his sword arm fell to the ground with a wet splat. Blood poured from his stump in tandem with pulses of agony. Not caring if he bled to death, not even caring about the battle raging around him, Gnaeus Magnus knelt in the snow and stared blankly down at his severed limb.

* * *

Aerin glared down at the battle, feeling frustration at her own uselessness. She only had five arrows left, and she was saving them for the very last. Most of the archers were doing the same; only a small knot of crossbowmen were still firing. Down below, the battlefield was a boiling cauldron of blood and chaos. The Daedra pouring from every Gate had linked up with each other and were pushing out in every direction against the ring of Imperial soldiers surrounding them and their portals. Their main thrust, however, was clearly towards the hills where the archers were, where Martin and Phillida were overseeing the battle; her sharp eyes could pick out several places where the line was bulging outwards. The Imperial forces were rapidly reaching breaking point. Grimacing, she turned to Merandil, but before she could speak, Varus's voice barked the dreaded command.

"All archers with less than ten arrows left, prepare for melee!"

Sighing, the Bosmer placed Trueshot carefully on her back and drew one of her curved shortswords. Beside her, Merandil took his battleaxe from the loop on his belt. All around them, archers were dropping their bows or placing them on their backs before drawing whatever weapons they had to hand. Many wore swords, axes and maces, but some had little more than long daggers or clubs, and few wore anything heavier than boiled leather armour. Part of her was tempted to call Phillida mad, but part of her reluctantly acknowledged that an injection of several hundred fresh troops could hold the line for vital minutes.

Varus's gravelly voice barked more orders. "Section leaders, lead your designated squads down to where the line is thinnest! Hold it with your lives!" The archers were split into ten sections of roughly a hundred each; not much, but they could be enough. Merandil raised an arm without hesitation and strode forward several paces, bellowing for his section to follow him. Aerin rolled her shoulders and hefted her blade before darting to catch up with him, walking at his side as his command slowly fell in behind him.

"Don't worry, Aerin," growled the Altmer, thumbing the edge of his axe. "I know the bloody work. Stick close to me. We'll be heading down to help Burd's detachment."

The Wood Elf nodded grimly and gripped her sword hilt so tightly that her leather gauntlets complained. Ilend had been in Burd's section. As they marched down towards the fight near the second Gate, she couldn't help trying to pick out her lover, but it was, of course, impossible. Instead, her eyes were drawn to the Imperial lines slowly falling back. Merandil was leading them towards one of the worst bulges, where it looked like the enemy forces would break through any minute. Lightning still forked down into the swarming mass of Daedra, but most of the battlemages were tiring, and of the dozen or so Daedra killed with each strike, more soon came from the nearest Gate to replace them. The archer drew a shuddering breath and tried to force down her nerves.

"Don't die, Ilend," she whispered as Merandil raised his axe and ordered the charge.

* * *

Gorgoth stopped at the end of the Siege Crawler, looking down on flat, cracked earth slowly passing by far beneath him. The far end of the massive weapon was nearly at the Great Gate. Ahead of him loomed the huge spire of obsidian that would host the Great Sigil Stone. From his vantage point, he could see a path leading to it through an otherwise impenetrable rock formation. He jumped without hesitation, a Slowfall spell breaking his fall. Within seconds he was running towards the tower, fortification magic meaning that he was moving even faster than he could have done normally.

Dremora archers posted on the rocky ridges ahead of him saw him as soon as he saw them, but before their arrows had left their bows they had been shattered by ball lightning or consumed by fireballs. Nothing could slow the Hero of Kvatch. Even the smallest delay, and the world would burn. Ignoring the snarl spreading across his face beneath his helmet, the warrior-shaman ran on.

* * *

Phillida's free hand stroked his chin thoughtfully as he surveyed the battle below him. His other hand was behind his back, gripping the hilt of his claymore. The archers had reached the line and had largely stabilised it, but the sheer weight of enemy forces pouring from the Great Gate would soon rupture his centre. Within the Daedric horde, Gorgoth's horsemer formed deadly pockets of resistance, but they could only break up the tide, not avert it. Even the elite warriors under Dion's command would crack soon. He turned to regard Martin, standing at his side with a grim expression on his face, Goldbrand shining like the sun in his fist. The Emperor's left hand was pointing towards the Daedric ranks, ever moving. Where he pointed, his enemies died, struck down by lightning bolts or torn apart as the earth erupted under their feet, but while the Imperial was a powerful mage, he couldn't keep it up for much longer.

The general cleared his throat. "Looks like our swords will be bloodied today, sire." He swept his claymore from its scabbard, his words punctuated by rasping leather. As one, his bodyguard unsheathed their weapons, ready to follow where he led and willing to die at his side.

Martin simply nodded, lowering his left hand and raising his right. Sixty Akaviri katanas flashing from their sheathes was the only answer Phillida needed.

Their bodyguards moved together as their two leaders moved forward, more than a hundred elite warriors ready to hack a path into the depths of Oblivion itself. They needed no commands, and neither Phillida nor Martin gave them any as they passed the remaining archers and the tiring battlemages. Holding up a clenched fist, the general brought them all to a halt twenty paces behind the front line, directly in front of the Great Gate. Checking his helmet strap, he looked sideways at his Emperor.

"Sire, all we need to do is buy time. Buy it with our lives, if need be, but not _your_ life. I'll only-"

"No, Phillida," responded Martin, donning his helmet. "I've already sent men to die for me while I sat and watched. No longer. If Dagon wants my realm, he will not take it without his minions feeling the bite of my sword and feeling the fury of the last Septim." His lips curled into a snarl as he turned to face the backs of the soldiers in front of him, their line on the verge of disintegration. "_For Tamriel!_" Raising Goldbrand high, he charged forward, his bellowed war cry echoed by sixty Blades as they plunged after him into the chaos of battle.

Despite himself, Phillida smiled. The man would be a good leader of men, if he lived. He raised his voice. "_For the Emperor!_" Knowing that his bodyguard would follow, he forced his ageing bones into action and threw himself into the fray.

* * *

Ilend no longer knew or cared if it was sweat or blood pouring down his back; all he knew was that his arms were aching, his armour was scarred, and there was still no end to the enemies facing him. He'd managed to find a relatively stable section of the line and was fighting side by side with Tarad and Captain Burd, but eventually exhaustion would take its toll. He could only hope that Gorgoth closed the Gates soon.

"Why did you have to bloody well invade?" he growled at a clannfear trying to claw his innards open. His shield swept aside its attack and his sword carved a bloody line across its chest. "I was happy in Kvatch. _Happy_, damn you. I didn't need this war." He stepped forward, thrusting, and the clannfear fell with a burbling screech. "Then again, I'd never have met Gorgoth. Or Aerin." A Dremora replaced the clannfear. "Maybe if things turn out well, I might think differently. But now-" He snapped his mouth shut, well aware that his babbling was detrimental to the morale of those around him. Wincing as the Dremora's mace shook his shield and jarred his left arm to the bone, he slammed his blade into the side of his helmet, knocking him off-balance and giving Tarad the chance to stab him through the armpit. The Redguard Defender truly was every bit as good as he claimed; his bronze armour and helmet was black with blood, but none of it was his own.

"Stop going mad on me, Ilend," panted Burd, finishing off a scamp. His blonde hair was matted by blood trickling from a gash on his scalp. The Nord had little breath left to spare; a blow from a daedroth earlier had broken several of his ribs, and a healing potion had left him tired and drained, if whole.

"Not mad," retorted the Imperial, bashing a hunger in the face with his shield. "Just angry." His full-armed thrust took the Daedra in the midsection, lifting it off its feet before he kicked it off his blade. He blinked as sweat trickled into his eyes; the constant light of the Gate ahead of him was making it hard enough to see without his eyes swimming. Every part of him ached, but he knew the sensation and was managing to ignore it, just as he'd done at Kvatch and at Skingrad. He shook his head and prepared for the next Daedra to step up. What he wasn't expecting was to hear someone talking behind him.

"Don't turn around, Ilend. Just know that I've got your back." Despite his lover's calm, serious words, the Guildsman almost turned around anyway. They must have ordered the archers out to fight. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Merandil a few men down, his bloody battleaxe rising and falling.

"If we get surrounded, cut off..." He had to pause to swallow. His mouth was dry. "If we die, Aerin, we'll die together with a pile of corpses around us."

"A good way ta go." Her laugh was nervous. A daedroth reared its head and pawed the ground, getting ready to charge. "Focus on them, Ilend. I'll be here." Her hand patted his shoulder. If she was trying to hide the fact that she was trembling, she wasn't doing it very well. Even so, he smiled.

_Gorgoth, if you're going to do something, do it soon_. His smile became a snarl as the daedroth charged.

* * *

The Lord of Manruga suppressed the weariness threatening to drag him down as he climbed the final ramp in the vast Sigil Tower. He'd taken two Welkynd stones with him into Oblivion, and both of them had been used, along with many of his potions. He had slaughtered a way through the maze of tunnels and passages as quickly as he could, but using so much magic so quickly was always tiring, and even now he only had about half his magicka pool to confront whatever was in the Sigillum Sanguis. Of course, Blood King was still clenched in his fist, pulsing angrily; with this much power coursing through him and the weapon, he could brush aside any warrior without a strong enough defence, but any delay would cost hundreds of lives.

He pushed open the doors to the Sigillum Sanguis, expecting heavy resistance the moment he entered the curving corridor. There was none. Knowing that Dagon would not leave his greatest vulnerability completely exposed, he hurried onwards, sure he would find resistance once he entered the Sigil chamber. Once again, there was none. The chamber itself was no different to the chambers he had found in normal Sigil Keeps, save for the column of liquid magicka flowing upwards, which was thicker by far, pulsing with barely-restrained energy.

Hurrying up the stairs, he looked around for resistance and yet again, found none. Suspecting what he would find at the uppermost level, he grunted and looked down at Blood King, tightening his grip on the haft. Squaring his shoulders, Gorgoth marched up the ramps to find the final barrier.

The Great Sigil Stone looked much like what he'd expected, a larger version of a normal Sigil Stone, a slowly rotating ball slightly larger than his head, blacker than the darkest night. It was not that which drew his eyes, however. Awaiting him were three Dremora. One casually held a longsword in either hand, one had a shield and mace, and the other was hefting a battleaxe. All three had long horns curving upwards, adding six inches to their height, and the dark red skin of their faces was smooth. Their eyes were orange, flecked with an even darker red, and looking at him with an expression not of hate or fear, but of respect. Like their skin, the Daedric plate of their armour was more refined than that of ordinary Dremora, with Daedric runes and patterns inscribed on the red-and-black plate. As Gorgoth slowly moved onto the platform, they inclined their heads slightly.

He had long suspected that Dagon would send his very best to guard the Great Sigil Stone, and he was not wrong. Even one Valkynaz was powerful enough to be called a minor Daedric Lord in their own right, and now he faced three. When at full strength, he could probably best one of them magically, but in his weakened state against three they could kill him within minutes. Aware of dwindling time, he inclined his head slightly. The Valkyn returned the gesture.

"We knew you would get this far, Hero," said the Valkynaz with the mace and shield. Now that Gorgoth was closer, he could see the tell-tale shimmering of magical enhancements on their weapons and armour. "You have your duty, and we have ours." They spread out, forming a line between him and the Stone. No further words were needed. He knew all three would die to keep him from that Stone. It was more likely, however, that he would be the one dying, and there would be no quick rebirth for him.

He stepped forward and summoned a shield, already strapped to his left arm. Fortification magic seeped into him, strengthening him, masking his fatigue and granting him speed and agility beyond normal mortal limits. He would need every advantage he could find just to outmanoeuvre his opponents and survive for more than a few minutes. They were waiting patiently, knowing that he had to attack.

Gorgoth raised his mace and swung down, starting his attack just as he teleported in front of the battleaxe-wielding Dremora. The Valkynaz, caught by surprise, could only jerk backwards. It saved his life, but Blood King's heavy head left a deep gouge in his breastplate and knocked his battleaxe to the ground. Before he could recover, Gorgoth had spun and planted his boot into the Dremora's torso, kicking him off the edge and sending him crashing down to the floor below. He would be back, but not for a few seconds at least. The warrior-shaman turned towards the Stone, but the other two were already blocking his path. If he teleported directly to the Stone, they would be on him before it had finished parting from the magical stream. He had to deal with them.

It was they who attacked this time, splitting up to come at him from two different angles. The swordsman darted in and slashed high and low just as the maceman swung at his head. Blocking the mace with Blood King, Gorgoth blocked the high slash with his shield and jumped over the low slash, turning his movement into a forward flip – made easy by his magical enhancements – that put him on his feet a few paces from them. He turned, putting his back to the Sigil Stone, and started backing towards it, never taking his eyes off them. The third Dremora scrambled back up the ramp, picked up his battleaxe and joined his compatriots.

"You cannot take it," said the swordsman, shaking his head. Gorgoth felt resistance behind him, and knew without looking that the Valkynaz had effectively turned the air behind him solid.

"And I cannot let you keep it," replied the warlord, raising a hand. Fire leapt into existence, a single large flame surrounding all three of the Dremora. At the same time, he pushed back against the air behind him with his mind as well as his body, pitting his skill in Thaumaturgy against the Dremora's. Shapes appeared in the flames as they started to force their way out of the fire; they'd have known of his magic as soon as he started casting, and would have shielded themselves before they could take too much damage, but at the same time the inferno would be trying to trap them, melting the very ground under their feet. If they got free, he would die quickly; he would lack the energy to resist for long.

With a grunt he staggered back, almost falling off the ledge before he caught himself. Spinning, he released his summoned shield and snatched the Great Sigil Stone from the stream of magicka just as his own magical reserves started to fail him. Letting the conjured flame go, he put his last energies into resisting the heat that threatened to melt his gauntlet and threw himself from the ledge, wrapping his body protectively around the Stone. As he fell into the chaos of the magical forces tearing the Sigil Keep apart, he felt one of the Dremora slam into him.

The world vanished in fire and pain.

* * *

**A/N: Yes, this chapter ends there. Apologies if it dissatisfies, but if I included the entire battle in one chapter it'd be over 20,000 words long, and that's too long for a non-oneshot chapter. Anyhow, next chapter will see the end of the battle; forget not that there are still thousands of angry Daedra to be dealt with on the other side, so expect more blood and gore to come. As ever, don't forget to review; reviews help.**


	49. The Field of Blood

**A/N: My apologies for the wait, but hopping across the North Sea for half a week to watch my brother get married in Holland did break my flow a bit. At least his departure means I'll get a bit more time for writing... here's hoping. Anyhow thanks to everyone who reviewed though remember I could always use a few more...**

**Rokibfd (Chapter 47): The cheese grater was invented in the 1540s; a bit modern for Tamriel, true, but remember that the Dwemer had invented sentient robots, steam power, and weather control. I think they might have had a stab at kitchen equipment as well, and a fair few of their discoveries might have made it into mainstream Tamrielic life. At least, it's not too far to stretch the imagination... anyhow, I know all too well how tight time can get.**

**(Chapter 48): Dralasa is most certainly useful in the battle; the only reason she wasn't mentioned in 48 was because the battlemages didn't exactly take much of the limelight from the infantry. I don't think the rocks of the Storm atronachs CAN shatter, so while I did reference the Frosts, I didn't refer the Storms... maybe I should change it. According to UESP, Thaumaturgy is actually quite major, though I guess it doesn't get much attention because it's completely absent from the game, likely due to the impossibilities of implementing it. (If only more readers of this thought like you, eh?)**

**Random Reader: To be honest, I have no idea what I'm doing with the Knights; I've never played KOTN. Probably best to assume that their quest line is happening somewhere but you're not hearing about it (similar to the SI questline).**

**Underpaid Critic: What kind of action could he have taken? Wait for Daedra to come of the Gate so he could kill one, thus giving every Blade a fit and disrupting Phillida's plans? And it would have taken a while to move along the ranks and say a few personal words to each soldier. I would have included an action, but given the situation, I couldn't think of a plausible one...**

**Anyhow, good to hear that the Battle (the first bit of it, at least) went down well; here's hoping the second part is well-received as well...**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-nine: The Field of Blood**

Martin had never felt so alive in his life.

Lathar and the other Blades had trained and drilled him incessantly. They had given him calluses, burnt away his fat, replaced it with layers of hardened muscle, sparred with him until his entire body ached and cried out for rest, and then driven him even harder. They had given him skill with the sword, the axe, the mace, the shield. They had given him the strength to move in his heavy armour and the strength to lift his sword arm after hours of fighting. But nothing they had ever told him could have prepared him for the ferocity, the fury, the sheer _thrill_ of battle. Fighting for his life, taking each second of living as a victory, was not something that could be taught.

The wedge that his and Phillida's bodyguards had driven into the Daedric ranks had disrupted their assault and saved the Imperial line, but now Dagon's commanders were throwing every soldier they had at it, forcing them on the defensive. They definitely knew exactly who was fighting on the front lines beside the men and women of his bodyguard. Daedra were falling by the dozen, but they kept on, climbing over piles of their own dead to throw themselves at the bloodied ranks of the Blades. In the very front rank, at the very tip of the blunt wedge, Emperor Martin Septim fought for his life and for the future of Tamriel.

Yet another Dremora's weapon arm fell to the ground, the Kynaz's stump instantly cauterised by the blazing inferno that was Goldbrand. Martin wasted no time in bringing his blade back down, slicing open his opponent from neck to groin. He glanced around in the bare second he had before someone clawed the Dremora's body aside and attacked him once again. Captain Renault fought to his right, her katana red to the hilt, along with most of her armour. To his left was Roliand, the massive Nord managing to bellow deafening battle cries every few seconds. The ex-priest didn't know how the Blade could keep that up; his own breath was coming in pants, and his entire body was coated in sweat. Bruma might be cold, but battle was hot.

His attention refocused on his front as a clannfear leapt over the Kynaz's corpse. He thrust forward with barely a second thought, impaling the creature through the chest, withdrawing his shining blade with ease as he stepped back into line. A massive Xivilai raised an equally massive warhammer, standing just outside the katana's reach. Raising his left hand, Martin beckoned, and the ash-skinned Daedra's eyes widened as telekinesis magic forced him to stumble forward, unbalanced and unable to stop Goldbrand carving through his abdomen. The same telekinesis magic blasted the stricken Daedra back into the lines of his comrades, knocking several off their feet.

Making the most of his brief respite, he looked up at the Great Gate – and froze. He had seen a Siege Crawler laying waste to Kvatch, and had hoped to never see one again, but now one was thrusting its monstrous head through the portal. Soon it would be far enough through to have influence on the battle. Grimacing, he prepared to call for Phillida – the general had to have some contingency plan – but the words died in his throat.

The Great Gate flared, its light rivalling Goldbrand for a single instant before collapsing inward, crumbling into nothingness with a sound like a gale shrieking through trees. A deep rumbling shook the ground as the other three Gates all winked out of existence, their anchoring power suddenly disrupted by the Great Gate's collapse. The Siege Crawler was torn apart; what little had managed to enter Tamriel fell to the ground, scything through the Daedric ranks until it finally came to a halt. Martin smiled. _Thank you, Gorgoth_.

A Dremora that had been about to attack him stumbled to a halt, staring at him wide-eyed, mouth dropping open. With visible effort, the Kynaz shook himself, rolling his shoulders and coming forward again, looking a lot less confident. Before he could launch an attack, the Imperial had stepped forward and cut cleanly through the haft of his battleaxe, spinning Goldbrand to slice off his opponent's right leg and left arm before stepping back in line. Everywhere, the Daedra seemed shaken by the loss of their portals, but they were still alive and still in Tamriel; within minutes, they would be redoubling their assault.

"Sire." Behind Martin's left shoulder, Phillida's voice cut clearly through the cacophony of battle. "I'll take five bodyguards and leave the rest with you. I need to contact the battlemages." The Emperor only nodded; his general knew what he was doing. Another Dremora stepped in to attack him, and the Imperial planted his feet firmly, meeting the Kynaz's blade with his own. He was the Emperor of Tamriel, and he would hold for however long he had to, or the world would burn.

* * *

Phillida pushed out from the rear ranks, not even looking behind him to check if Vignar and his other four bodyguards were still with him. His men would give a good account of themselves, and they would guard Martin with their lives as readily as the Blades, but it was not his men – his brothers – that worried him. Weariness dragged at him as he jogged up the hill, but he pushed his aches to the back of his mind. Dents in his armour and notches in his bloodied claymore told him what he already knew; he was too old for battle now. Besides, with this new development, he had to be where any good general should be; where he could oversee the situation.

He reached the battlemages on their hill and turned to survey the battle. The Daedra were clustered around their destroyed Gates, several thousand of them, contained by a wide ring of Imperial soldiers all around them. An accurate count was impossible, of course, but he grimaced. The Daedra outnumbered his forces, and they were stronger, less tired, with more stamina. He sighed and walked over to the leader of the battlemages, an old Dunmer called Sathis Faveran who had been born before the foundation of the Third Empire.

"Faveran, I need your battlemages to kill as many Daedra as they can, as quickly as they can. Use all the reserves of magicka you have left." There wouldn't be much magical healing available after the battle, but if the Daedra broke them, that wouldn't matter anyway.

"As you command," responded the Dark Elf, bowing slightly before turning to speak orders to his mages. Faveran never shouted, but his quiet voice always seemed to carry his exact orders to every mage under his command. They reacted quickly; those who had been resting swallowed what potions they had and stepped up to join their comrades in a loose circle of a hundred casters. Phillida turned to watch; this was the first time in the battle that his magical forces had been ordered to attack all-out.

The boiling sky seemed to split as lightning crashed down from above, hundreds of bolts blasting into the Daedric ranks. Hundreds more fireballs joined them, thrown by the hands of battlemages or sent from the heavens alongside the lightning. Pillars of ice and frozen air struck down from above as well, freezing all they touched. Amongst the elemental fury, a more sinister use of Destruction magic stalked the battlefield, dark tendrils of magicka darting out and simply killing whatever it touched without leaving a mark. Daedra did not fall by the dozen; they fell by the hundred, torn apart by the fury of Tamriel's mages, slaughtered as death fell from the sky to strike them down even as they frantically threw themselves forward in an attempt to escape. The general nodded in satisfaction; he had seen this kind of display before, of course, but never when the stakes were this high.

Unable to keep up the torrent of death for long, the mages began to tire, some staggering out of the loose formation as though they had been months without sleep. As the rain of death began to falter and slow, Phillida unconsciously leaned forward, feeling the intensity he always felt when a battle hung on a knife edge. Heaps of dead and dying Daedra were scattered across the battlefield, and the centre of the plain was a devastated wasteland, but still they pushed at his forces surrounding them; the battlemages could only strike down a few foes near their own for risk of hitting their allies. The magical assault – it was dying out truly now, after what had only been a few minutes – had cost them thousands that could not be replaced, but the Daedra were still fighting with their undying strength. The numbers were favourable to his own side, now – as near as he could tell – but quality won more battles than quantity.

Sighing, the general turned to one of his bodyguards. "Get to Bruma and bring me every trained soldier you can find" he growled. The militia would have to do to defend the city if any other threat arose. He hoped he wouldn't have to need this new reserve, but when a man was drowning, he would clutch at the thinnest branch if he thought it would float. Turning back to the battlefield, he watched as his last few battlemages threw everything they had at the Daedra.

Overhead, a dim light began to shine through the fading clouds. Despite himself, Phillida smiled. He had wondered if he would ever feel the soft touch of the sun on his bare skin again.

* * *

Ilend had no idea how much time had passed – battle confused everything, and he couldn't even see the sun to give an indication – but he knew that he was nearing exhaustion. The Battle of Kvatch had lasted longer, true, but that hadn't been pitched battle for hour after painful hour. He thought it had been hours since the first Gate arrived, anyway; it was impossible to be sure. And time didn't matter to the Imperial in any case; as long as he had strength to lift his sword, he would fight until the bitter end.

"At least we're making a difference now," mumbled Aerin, standing wearily at his side with half the length of her shortsword splattered with Daedric blood. "Can't be long now that the Gates are closed."

"It's not over until it's over, girl," panted Burd on her other side. "Pay attention." His upper arm was bleeding from a deep gash, but he had run out of healing potions. They all had, barely finding time to swig them down and drop the bottle before being plunged into battle again. Ilend was saving the last of his magicka for an emergency.

The Bosmer grunted in reply then focused on the clannfear attempting to gut her. Ilend's blade left a deep slash in its back, but that was all he had time for before a Dremora kicked aside the body of a scamp and struck down at him. The Imperial's shield stopped the axe and trapped it, giving the Guildsman the opportunity to plunge his blade into the Kynaz's heart. Sliding the body from his blade, he attempted to wrench the axe out of his shield. As the weapon came loose, the battered shield splintered and broke apart, leaving only a fragment strapped to his left arm. Growling in frustration, the Imperial unwound the straps and shook it off as his lover plunged her curved blade deep into the clannfear's back just behind its skull.

He was about to step over and help her wrench the blade free when Tarad bellowed a warning. The Imperial spun, expecting to find a Daedra bearing down on him. Instead, a fireball was arcing over from the Daedric lines, heading directly for them. His head whipped around, preparing to protect Aerin with his body if need be, but Tarad was already leaping at him, slamming into him so hard that they both flew several paces and hit the ground rolling. The fireball slammed into the ground nearby, sending them sprawling even further. Ilend managed to raise his head just in time to see Daedra pour into the gap with sellswords and guardsmen rushing to meet them. "Aerin!" he roared, panic and fear lashing him. He charged to his feet, but Tarad was just as quick, grabbing his shoulder.

"It hit away from her, man! Stay calm!" Ilend shrugged him off, ready to plunge back into the ranks to find her, but the Redguard's cry of alarm warned him once again. Several more fireballs were heading towards their lines. The Defender pushed him away. "Go and find her, if you can!" The feverish light in Tarad's eyes, the sheer intensity of his voice and the trembling grip on his greatsword's hilt all told Ilend that the warrior was feeling the early stages of his adrenaline rush take him. Before the Imperial could respond, his comrade was rushing towards the Daedric lines, probably intent on carving through as many as he could.

The Protector turned and sprinted along the line, keeping clear of the fireball's destination, looking for Aerin, calling for her. She had to be alive. She had to be. An errant scamp reared up in front of him and he cut it down without a second thought. He darted back into the line near where he had last seen her and looked around frantically. A daedroth tore apart the soldier in front of him and grabbed at the Imperial. He snarled as he attempted to fend it off. She would have to look after herself for just a bit longer; he couldn't keep her alive if he was dead.

* * *

Pain was the first sensation that Gorgoth became aware of. Half his back seemed to be splitting open, most of his body felt battered and bruised, and he was drained by physical and mental exhaustion. Hearing returned next; the distant clash of battle and the screams of the dead and wounded told him that the battle was not immediately around him. His brain, working sluggishly in a mire of fatigue, was confused; he had been spat out of the Great Gate with a sword in his back and the Great Sigil Stone in his hands; surely the Daedra would have killed him by now. But then he realised what was crushing him.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Slush had blocked one of the eye holes of his helmet, but he painfully turned his head to look up through the other one. He was lying on his front near the ruins of the Great Gate, crushed beneath one of the massive legs of the Siege Crawler. His armour had stopped it killing him – the steel plate hadn't even bent – but it was exerting painful pressure on the sword hilt sticking out of his back. The Valkynaz had done his best, managing to penetrate the thick armour while diving downwards into the chaos of the Sigil Keep collapsing, but Gorgoth had been fortunate that the blade had missed anything vital. He'd never counted himself particularly lucky, but now it seemed that luck – maybe even fate – had intervened twice in the space of a few minutes. Had he not been largely concealed beneath the Siege Crawler, the Daedric forces would have wasted no time in killing him.

Overhead, the sun was shining brightly in a clear blue sky. The Great Sigil Stone was lying a few feet from his hands, steam rising as it melted a hole in the mud. Blood King was a few inches from his right hand, but it would be useless until he freed himself. His magicka pool had refilled slightly in his brief unconsciousness, enough for the warrior-shaman to cast the dangerous spell that masked his own exhaustion – fatigue could never be properly removed, and the body could drop dead from exhaustion it never felt – before casting a fortification spell, giving more strength to arms and legs he could barely move otherwise.

He gritted his teeth to stop himself groaning in agony as he forced himself upwards, pushing up to his knees. The leg of the Siege Crawler slid off his back, but there was no such easy solution to the katana sticking out of him. It hadn't penetrated the front of his armour, but it was still firmly lodged in his back. Grimacing, the warlord pulled off his helmet and set it on the ground in front of him as he pulled what remaining potions he had from his belt. He only had three left; two for healing his wounds and one for restoring his magicka. He swigged down the latter and threw the bottle away before awkwardly twisting his arms behind him and tugging at the hilt of the katana. Slowly, painfully, he wrenched it out of his body, ignoring the blood spurting over his gauntlets. The second it left his skin, he threw it down and quickly downed both healing potions.

With his wound sealed and his bruises fading, the warrior-shaman finally paid full attention to his surroundings. For about fifty paces in every direction was scarred, shattered wasteland littered with corpses; he could tell that the battlemages had been throwing everything they could at the Daedra. There could be nothing left alive out there; the few survivors would have joined their comrades in the front row. All around him, but relatively distant, he could see the backs of Daedra throwing themselves at what he knew to be the Imperial lines. Tired as he was, Gorgoth knew he had something more to do; by destroying the Gates he had struck a decisive blow, but his comrades would need the Hero of Kvatch to do more than that. He stooped and picked up Blood King, casting a spell of fire resistance before picking up the Great Sigil Stone in his left hand. The fate of Tamriel could rest on it; he wasn't about to let it out of his grasp even in the thick of battle.

He tapped the side of his helmet to clear the eye holes before replacing it on his head and looking around. In the clear daylight, he could see the hill where Phillida had been commanding from; most of the battlemages were slumped on the ground resting, and the only archers in evidence appeared to be crossbowmen. There was no sign of Martin; Phillida must have committed every last reserve he had. Checking that his three blades were in their proper places, the warrior-shaman clenched Blood King firmly in his fist and started walking towards the Daedra attacking towards the hills. The mace's enchantment was less powerful than it had been, in response to his own weakness, but it would still brush aside a daedroth with ease if swung with full strength, and taking the enemy in the rear was almost always devastating. Fortifying his strength further and covering himself with a magical shield, Gorgoth broke into a jog.

The first Daedra he reached were two robed Dremora mages straining to see over the ranks of their own forces, trying to see where to direct their next fireballs. One took a full-strength swing in his back, shattering most of the bones in his body and propelling him into the rear ranks of his allies, while the other barely had time to turn before Gorgoth smashed downwards, leaving most of the Kynaz's upper half a bloody ruin. He paused only to jerk the mace head free before turning back towards the boiling mass of Daedra before him, some alerted by being struck by the remnants of his first victim. Giving them no time to reorganise, he charged into them.

Dimly he felt his body begging him to lie down and rest, to sleep, but it was like the muted buzzing of a small fly, easily ignored thanks to his spell. Daedra fell in shattered heaps as he barged his way through their battle line, leaving a trail of carnage in his wake. Recognising the Stone in his hand, Dremora after Dremora tried to claim vengeance and were sent back to Oblivion, Daedric steel unable to resist Blood King's battle fury, even in this weakened state. Smashing aside a daedroth, he was almost to to the front lines when a Xivilai stepped out in front of him, a bloodstained battleaxe grasped in one hand. Drying crimson stains were spread over most of Medraka's body, but none of it was his own.

"It seems I underestimated you," was all the Daedra said, rubbing his chin with his free hand. "I recall that you did warn me about that. I should have listened."

Gorgoth swiped aside a clannfear attempting to claw a way through his armour and stepped closer to the Xivilai he sometimes counted among his comrades. "I assume you will not hold it against me if I banish you now?"

"Of course not. We are enemies now. The next time you summon me, we will be allies once again." The Daedra hefted his battleaxe and looked down at the blood splattered over his sash. "I should add that Lurog died well. He fought to the last."

"He would." The warrior-shaman forced down the emotions that were threatening to rise; he would remember his Bloodguard and friend later. For now, he had a battle to fight. Medraka stepped forward, eyes darting around and silently threatening eternal torture to any lesser Daedra who interrupted them. Most of them snarled at him before hurrying off to find some other part of the Imperial line to attack. Some stayed, but kept a careful distance. Their betters were not to be defied, even when cut off from Oblivion.

Gorgoth made the first move, dashing forward with Blood King swinging towards the Xivilai's torso. Knowing the power of the mace, his enemy sidestepped to evade the attack rather than blocking, gripping his battleaxe in both hands before launching an attack of his own. The Orc barely got his mace back in time to block, grunting as he almost staggered. The two were of a height, and while the Orsimer was slightly wider than the Daedra, they were roughly evenly matched in physical strength. Back-pedalling to avoid another attack, he surged forwards again, feinting right before jabbing from the left. Unlike most enemies he faced, however, the Xivilai knew something of how Gorgoth fought, and parried the blow with enough force to almost tear the long mace from his opponent's hand.

Keeping his grip on his weapon at the expense of staggering forward, the warrior-shaman kicked at Medraka's legs, forcing his foe back, taking the time to recover. A bolt of lightning flashed from the Daedra's hand, but the warlord's magical shield absorbed most of it. Shrugging off the few sparks dancing over his armour, Gorgoth moved forward, swinging slowly for his enemy's head before throwing himself forwards and changing the direction of the attack to aim at his flank. The Xivilai jerked sideways and grabbed the Orc's weapon arm, halting his attack before putting his entire strength into heaving his opponent over his shoulder.

The Orsimer twisted to land on his back, grunting as the air was forced from his lungs but already rolling to the side to avoid Medraka's ferocious downcut, the battleaxe cleaving down into the empty space he had just occupied. Forcing himself upwards, the warrior-shaman shoved the Great Sigil Stone into the Daedra's face. Medraka jerked back, choking off a howl of pain as his face started to melt. Snatching the Stone away, Gorgoth smoothly pivoted on one foot and slammed Blood King into his enemy's ribs. The Xivilai's mutilated body was hurled across the battlefield, only stopping when the massive corpse slammed into a clannfear.

Aware that he and his comrade now had several new topics for conversation when he next summoned the Xivilai, the warrior-shaman quickly glanced around to get his bearings then started off towards the Imperial lines again. His magicka had regenerated enough for him replace Blood King on his back and blast a path for himself, bolts of lightning darting from his fingers to cut down any Daedra foolish enough to challenge him. The gap opening ahead of him was abruptly filled by Blades, exploiting the gap and spreading out to cut down Daedra left and right.

Gorgoth wasted no time in moving through them, lowering his mace as he searched for the man they would be protecting. Martin appeared ahead of him, Goldbrand shining brightly in his right hand. The Emperor's armour bore few crimson stains; fighting with such a weapon was unlikely to spray the wielder with an enemy's blood, and he was well-trained enough to avoid getting more than a few scrapes on the ornate steel plate. His eager eyes, already burning with an intense light, instantly leapt to the Great Sigil Stone.

"I have to get this safe," the warrior-shaman told him, not pausing in his march towards the rear. "I will be back when I'm sure we won't lose it." Martin nodded and turned back to the front line. The soldiers swiftly parted for the warlord as he moved through the thin line, the sounds of battle slowly receding behind him as he entered open space. Cautiously stepping around the corpses, he broke into a jog, hurrying up towards where Phillida would be. The only soldiers not already in combat were a knot of crossbowmen who looked to be rationing their bolts and the group of battlemages, most of whom seemed to be collapsed on the ground in a state of exhaustion. Ignoring them, his eyes found the purple plumes of Phillida's helmet. The man himself was standing on the highest point of ground available, surveying the battle through a looking glass.

* * *

At the sound of boots crunching through hard-packed snow, General Phillida lowered his looking glass, a small smile spreading over his face as he looked down at the Orcish warrior-shaman walking towards him. Under all their thick plate armour, it might have been hard to tell one tall Orc from another, but he doubted that a normal cavalrymer would have a Great Sigil Stone clutched in his hand. Tucking the glass behind his belt, the Imperial returned the warlord's fist-on-heart salute. "Good to see you again, Lord Gorgoth. Resistance was tough?"

"Maybe I truly am the Nine's champion. I fail to see how I could have made it through alive without some kind of divine intervention." The Orsimer's reply was hardly encouraging, yet Phillida cared little. They had the Great Sigil Stone. That was all that mattered. That, and winning the battle. "I will leave it here under guard. I am mostly spent, but I cannot stand and watch. Not while my mer still fight and die." There were knots of Orcish cavalry still fighting in the mass, each horsemer protecting his comrade beside him, wearing the Daedra down, but they were still taking casualties.

The Imperial nodded. As far as he could tell, the Orc still looked ready for battle despite the bloody mud staining most of his armour. He opened his mouth to release Gorgoth, only to close it again when he noticed the warrior-shaman gazing over his shoulder. The sound of hooves reached his ears. "Troops incoming, General, and not ours," reported Vignar, his voice urgent. The General turned. He might have expected a small squad of mounted guardsman, or perhaps a detachment of Legion cavalry. What he saw was something else entirely.

Reining in about fifty paces from the hill, just off the Silver Road, was a small column of Dunmeri light cavalry. Each mer and horse was covered in a sprinkling of dust and mud that spoke of a long, hard journey, but each soldier was sitting upright in his saddle, clutching a slender lance, alert and ready for battle. There could not have been more than a hundred of them, but Phillida was sorely tempted to smile at such welcome reinforcements. If they _were_ reinforcements.

Their leader had not stopped with his mer but had continued on, riding up to the hilltop before reining in a few paces away when Vignar moved to block his path. He was tall for a Dark Elf, with a thin face that seemed perpetually displeased. He had no lance, but a curved cavalry sword on his belt balanced a long single-bladed axe and a quiver holding arrows for the horsebow on his back. His armour was boiled leather studded with steel, and an open-face helmet hung from his hip. Resting his gauntleted hands on the pommel of his saddle, he looked down at Gorgoth, a piercing look in his crimson eyes. "My name is Gothren Sadri, of House Redoran." His smooth voice held the accents of western Vvardenfell, though he wouldn't have been serving on the island; horsemer were rare enough on the mainland, let alone the less civilised areas of Morrowind. "I am looking for Gorgoth gro-Kharz."

"You have found him," replied the Orc in question, looking up at the Dunmer and making no attempt to remove his helmet. "What do you want?" The battle going on behind him might as well not have existed, but Phillida kept half an eye on the worst bulges in his lines.

"I have a message for you from the Lord Nerevarine." Phillida's eyebrow twitched; the resistance to the Daedra in Morrowind was being led by the Nerevarine, along with Lord Vivec and King Helseth. What would the saviour of Morrowind want with an Orcish warlord? Sadri rode closer and took a small letter from his belt pouch, holding it down to Gorgoth. The Orsimer took it without a word, breaking the seal and reading it without removing his helmet. He gave no outward reaction as he folded the letter again and tucked it inside his gauntlet, looking up at the Dunmer.

"Your soldiers are under my command?" asked the warrior-shaman. Sadri nodded shortly, his face deliberately smooth. "General Phillida is in command here. Do as he says, and go where he points. Fight and die for victory. If we lose here, Tamriel dies." His final words were punctuated by his dropping the Great Sigil Stone. The snow around it hissed as it started to melt its way through to the ground beneath. Seeming to dismiss Sadri, he turned to Phillida. "Set someone to guarding this," he said, indicating the Stone. "Martin or myself will return for it, but now the battlefield calls to me."

"We won't lose it. You have my word on that." The Imperial turned back to study the battlefield. "Rejoin the battle line directly in front of where the third Gate used to be. We're hard-pressed there." The warlord saluted and strode off to the indicated position, swinging his mace from his back. Putting the Orc out of his mind, the General looked back up at Sadri. "I am General Adamus Phillida. Your mer are ready for battle?" The Dark Elf gave him a short nod, a sharp motion to his men setting them in motion. "Good. Form them up just down the slope from here. I will give the order to charge when I see fit."

Sadri nodded again and spurred his mount onwards, shouting orders to his mer in his native tongue. Phillida was already hurrying towards the battlemages, hoping that a least a few of them had some magicka in reserve. Sathis Faveran looked up from talking to a knot of his mages who seemed on the brink of passing out and wearily stepped up to meet his commander.

"How many of your mages are up to giving it one last surge?" asked the General, looking around him in with unfeigned concern on his face. Some of the mages might have been mistaken for dead if it wasn't for the slow rise and fall of their chests. Every face he saw was drawn and tired.

"Three of my strongest, all Dunmer," replied Faveran after some thought, a hint of pride in his voice. "Arch-Mage Merissa still hasn't fully recovered from what the King of Worms did to her, so she's spent. All we have left are myself, Fathis Aren, and a girl called Dralasa Helas. We might be able to kill a few dozen, but not much more than that." At his command, the two he'd named trudged over to join him. The Imperial vaguely recognised Fathis Aren, the court mage of Bravil; he'd removed the heavy armour he normally wore, but his calloused hands still stroked the hilt of the ebony katana at his hip. If wearied, he still looked like he was considering finding his armour and heading down to the front lines. His companion, however, wasn't what Phillida had expected. Whereas the rest of the mages were mostly wearing robes or some kind of armour, the short Dunmeri girl was wearing only a low-cut silk dress that belonged more in the bedroom than on a battlefield. A smile was plucking at her full lips despite leaning on a staff to help her stay upright. Dismissing the rumours he'd heard of a Dark Elf bedding half the soldiers in Bruma, the General cleared his throat and pointed down towards the battle.

Largely, the Imperial ring around the Daedric army was holding well, inflicting casualties while maintaining the encirclement. There was, however, immediate concern; Daedra were clustering around a weak spot in the ranks near where the second Gate used to be, and the Imperial line was bulging outwards dangerously, almost at breaking point. Phillida's finger was pointing unwaveringly at that area. "Can you kill the Daedra there who are directly attacking our front line? That'd be an immediate reprieve for the infantry."

"As you command." Faveran nodded to his two comrades and they stared down at the battlefield, outstretched hands pulsing with a dark red glow. The General pulled out his looking glass and peered down at the afflicted area. He smiled as he saw Daedra exploding, torn to pieces by magical forces they never saw. His forces – on the brink of collapse – halted their grudging retreat as the Daedric attack was blown apart in front of them, some raising their shields to avoid getting hit in the face by flying body parts. By the time the battlemages had finished their grisly work, a bloody mess was all that remained of over thirty Daedra. More had to clamber over their former comrades to attempt to continue the attack, but the Imperial line had already reformed.

Phillida's smile slipped as he turned back to the mages. Dralasa had dropped her staff and was barely remaining upright, her smile gone from her face as she clutched at Aren, who no longer looked so eager to get to personal grips with the enemy. Faveran's back remained stiff and his eyes were sharp, but his chest rose and fell as though he had been running a marathon. "How long have you been casting for?" asked the Imperial cautiously.

"All of us started casting when you gave the first order, General," replied Faveran. "We used up all our potions, and even then we only stopped completely when we were ready to drop dead." The Dark Elf shook his head. "We're all spent, now. I can't offer you more than six or seven from our ranks for healing." Phillida nodded in understanding. From his estimation of the sun, the battle had been going on for over two hours; short in terms of what he was used to, but for a battlemage, throwing all the magical energy he had at the enemy for that time would exhaust even the strongest of them.

"You've earned your rest," he told the Dunmer. "Leave anyone who can help with the healing here and take the rest back to Bruma." He barely waited for the battlemage's nod before starting down towards the assembled light cavalry, Vignar and his bodyguard falling in behind him.

Sadri had arranged his mer in a deep formation of eight ranks with himself in the centre of the first rank. As the Imperial walked around to talk to him, he kept half an eye on another bulge developing near the remains of the first Gate. The Daedra appeared to be sending every last spare asset they had to that area. Reaching Sadri, he pointed at it. "When the line breaks there, I want you to charge with everything you have. If you break out into the centre, circle around and perform hit-and-run attacks in the Daedric rear, but defeating the Daedra there is most important."

"I know the work, General," replied the Dunmer, glaring down at the indicated position. "Just give the order." His axe was held firmly in his left hand, and some of his men were using their horsebows to shoot at any target that presented itself. Phillida was unsure of whether they would survive long after the impact of their charge – lightly-armoured cavalry with unarmoured horses were unlikely to last long in this brutal meat-grinder – but a good general made use of anything he could. Besides, if enough could break into the empty centre and hit enough of the Daedra in the back... Phillida rubbed his chin, deep in thought as he turned to watch the Daedric assault.

* * *

Aerin grimaced as she dropped the empty potion bottle. She'd taken it from the belt of a dead Redguard; he had needed it less than her, with the ribs on her right side clearly visible through the gash a Dremora's sword had left there. The Bosmer had fired all her remaining arrows and lost one her her shortswords, thanking the Divines that she always carried an identical spare. It seemed like years since the fireball had separated her and Ilend, though it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes. She had initially rushed along the rear of their lines, shouting for him until a daedroth had almost succeeded in taking her leg off. Captain Ulrich Leland of Cheydinhal had then hauled her into his squad and pushed her into the front lines, looking so ferocious with his face splattered with Daedric blood that she hadn't even tried to argue. She'd only slipped away after her wound had sent her to the ground, scrabbling on hands and knees for a potion.

Rising to her feet, she looked around her. The sun was shining overhead now, but any hope she felt was tempered by the sight of the nearby line bulging outwards, almost cracking under the pressure of the attacking Daedra. Sighing, she raised her sword and started to back away; Ilend might have instilled some sense of duty in her, but she wasn't about to throw herself into a fight that would certainly leave her dead. Even so, her legs stopped moving as three daedroth surged through the Imperial line, cutting down soldiers left and right. More Daedra poured through the gap, wasting no time in turning to attack the mortals beside them. A horrified expression crept over Aerin's face as she realised that within minutes the Daedra would have the run of the battlefield. More immediately, a clannfear was running straight at her.

Clutching her hilt in both hands, she planted her feet, ready to meet it. However, the creature paused mid-charge, turning its head as though confused. The Bosmer frowned in confusion before following the Daedra's gaze to her right. Her mouth dropped open.

Dunmeri cavalry were slamming into the enemy forces, shattering them with their charge and impaling them on their lances, forcing them back through the gap. An exhausted cheer went up all around her as the infantry realised that reinforcements had arrived at a critical time, redoubling their efforts and fighting even harder. The clannfear shrieked and turned to charge back at the cavalry. Shaking her head to drive away the shock, Aerin leapt forward and plunged her sword into its sinewy back, almost falling down on top of it as it collapsed with a screech. She had long ago ceased to care about the hot Daedric blood spurting over her hands and the rest of her body.

Straightening, she continued to watch as the Dark Elves drove the enemy back ,effectively plugging the gap in their lines as the infantry moved back in to consolidate. Straining up on her tiptoes, she thought she might be able to see a few moving beyond the fighting, but it was impossible to be sure. Settling back on her heels before a Dremora could take her face off with a fireball, she looked around, frowning as she noticed a distant black-armoured figure striding confidently into the battlefield and promptly sending several Daedra flying in all directions. Aerin's lips curved into a smile as she started running over towards him. If she couldn't find Ilend, at least she'd be safe with Gorgoth.

* * *

Phillida smiled as he studied the battlefield. The Dunmeri cavalry had performed better than he'd expected; they'd crushed the Daedric assault and now over half of them were running riot in the centre, making the hit-and-run assaults that light cavalry were so perfectly suited for. A group of ten or twenty would charge into the backs of Daedric forces focused on their enemies, striking swiftly with their lances before wheeling away to escape any harm. The remainder of the detachment had either died in the initial charge or were battling alongside the infantry, who were fighting with renewed vigour all along the line. As the enemy weakened, the Imperial forces started to push forward again. Slowly but surely, the tide was turning.

"General." The Imperial turned to see Vignar pointing towards Bruma. Raising his looking glass, he could see the five hundred soldiers he'd requested filing out of the South Gate and marching down the road at speed. Phillida nodded to himself. It was always best to have a reserve, even if he could possibly win the battle without this one. He turned back to the battle just in time to see a surge of motion. Daedra from the far side of the battlefield were breaking away from their combat. Everywhere he could see, the enemy was turning and charging towards the Imperial line directly in front of his commanding position. He grunted. Clearly, they still retained some sense; a hammer of most of the remaining Daedra could break a part of his line while a rear guard protected their backs for the few vital minutes they needed. Even as he looked, the first Daedric reinforcements joined their comrades fighting the Imperial forces ahead of him, immediately stopping his advance and crushing a few unfortunate Dunmeri cavalry between them.

Grimacing, the General turned to look at his own reinforcements, hurrying down the Silver Road. He only hoped they could get to him quickly enough.

* * *

Martin felt himself snarling as he sliced a Dremora's face in two. The Daedra had clearly sensed their defeat and were throwing themselves forward harder than they ever had before. All around him, the Blades were being hard pressed by the sheer weight of numbers pressing inward. The ex-priest himself was tiring; his armour was dented in several places, Goldbrand was growing heavy in his hands, and most of his body was aching. Adrenaline still coursing through his veins masked the worst of it, however, and he fought on with grim determination, Goldbrand cutting through a daedroth's thick chest as though it was paper. The Blades either side of him – Renault hadn't left his side since he'd plunged into the fray – were covered in thick Daedric blood, but he knew that all of them would cover themselves in their own blood before letting harm come to him. Some already had.

"Just a bit longer, sire," grunted Baurus as he smashed his shield sideways into a clannfear's face. "They can't keep this up for long. It's their last push." He grunted again as he forced his katana through the Daedra's ribcage.

"We've half-won already," panted Renault on his other side, peering cautiously over the rim of her notched shield at the Dremora slowly approaching her. "Are you sure you won't withdraw, sire? We have this in-"

"No!" Martin paused to slice a Kynaz's sword in two before stabbing upwards into his heart. "How could I leave you to face this while I retreat to safety? How could I call myself a man, let alone an Emperor, if I did that?" He withdrew Goldbrand from the corpse, ignoring it as it fell. How many had he killed so far? It didn't matter; he hadn't even killed them. They were not mortals, to be killed so easily. He forced his mind back to the present as a hunger reached for him, claws glowing with the dark red of a Destruction spell. The Imperial chopped through both spindly arms at the wrist before splitting its horrific head in two with a high downcut.

A massive Dremora almost as big as a Xivilai stepped forward and grabbed a clannfear by the scruff of its neck, throwing it at Baurus. As the Knight Brother tried to fend off the wild creature, the Kynaz raised an enormous warhammer and brought it down on the top of the Redguard's head. Blood and brain matter splattered Martin's helmet as he turned to disembowel the clannfear, a snarl creeping over his face as the body of one of his staunchest bodyguards crumpled to the ground. From the moment he had met the future Emperor, Baurus had been fanatical in his protection, eager to atone for his previous failure; now his mangled corpse would just be one of thousands. There was no time to mourn or remember him, however; that heavy warhammer was swinging towards Martin's chest. He ducked and swung upwards at the same time, the sheer heat of Goldbrand's enchantment slicing through the weapon's haft just under the head. The big Dremora blinked in surprise at the loss of his weapon, his hand reaching for the sword at his waist too slowly as the Imperial surged upwards, driving his katana upwards into his torso.

A grunt behind him drew the Emperor's attention and he wrenched his sword out of his falling opponent before spinning to find Renault sprawled on the ground, struggling to rise as a Dremora raised his sword to end her life. Realising that the warhammer's detached head must have flown into her, Martin bellowed a battle cry as he leaped to block the attack, sparks flying as he pushed the Kynaz back away from her. Shadows flickered and danced as Goldbrand moved to block swift strikes, leaving a notch in the Daedric blade each time. More Daedra attempted to capitalise, but more Blades rushed in to stand beside him.

"By the Divines, sire, it's meant to be _me_ protecting _you_!" growled Renault, her voice exasperated as she retook her place in the line beside him, mud staining most of her armour. A clannfear's claws left yet more gouges in her shield as she stabbed it through the side of its head. "Leave the heroic suicidal rescues to your bodyguard! It's what we're here for!"

"I do what I have to do," shot back Martin in response, ducking under a swing from the tenacious Kynaz and attempted a counter-attack that met only the thick shield strapped to his foe's left arm. He heard cursing behind him as someone shoved through the ranks to speak to him.

"We're cut off from our lines, sire," said a voice that he didn't recognise. It might have been one of Phillida's bodyguards. "The Daedra are pressing in from every side. They're pushing to the point of suicide; we can't kill them quickly enough."

Martin started to grunt a reply only to find himself forced back by the sheer weight of Daedric bodies pressing forward. He kept fighting with barely enough room to swing Goldbrand, slowly getting pressed back against those behind him by Daedra charging inward, forcing the corpses of their comrades forward before them. Gaps opened in the ranks of the Blades as his bodyguards were overwhelmed by Daedra swarming over them without a care for the swords that sliced through them, throwing themselves forward even in their dying spasms. The Emperor found himself jammed between Renault and Roliand, his pauldrons scraping against theirs and his back rammed against the chest of the man behind him, swinging Goldbrand from over his head against whatever foe threw itself forward. And still the Daedric horde pressed on, scrambling over a mound of their own dead.

The ex-priest had always known of the possibility of failure, known of the consequences should he fail, but it was only then that he realised how terrifyingly real that possibility was. He could die at any second, the last hope of Tamriel falling in battle alongside thousands of his subjects. Terror lanced through him, gripping at his heart, threatening to freeze him where he stood, but he ruthlessly forced it down as he cleaved a scamp's skull in two. Fear would not aid him; he could only focus on staying alive for just a few seconds longer. And then a few seconds after that, and then after that... the Daedric horde would have to exhaust itself soon. It _had_ to.

"It was an honour to fight by your side, Martin," gasped Renault, her breath coming in ragged pants. She had lost her shield and her katana was notched in several places. Her left arm was trapped against his right side; she had no room to use anything but her other arm.

"Sovngarde awaits," said Roliand simply, the Daedric blood splattering most of his front making him look even more intimidating than usual.

"If we die here, the Empire dies with us," muttered Martin grimly, drawing on his remaining magical reserves and raising both hands. "You will _not_ have Tamriel, Dagon." Lightning flashed from Goldbrand's blade and from his free hand, shattering the Daedra before him, scything down those so eager to taste the flesh of mortals. He blinked in shock, his spells halting, as he staggered forward into space suddenly devoid of anything but charred remains and crumbling ash. In front of him was open air. Freedom. Hope. A savage smile spread across the Emperor's face as he raised Goldbrand, Roliand and Renault stepping up beside him. To his side were Daedra still pressing forward, but their line was growing thin. "_For Tamriel_!" roared Martin, turning to plunge into the enemy flank.

As he carved through the invaders, Goldbrand alive in his hand, the ex-priest slowly became aware of mortal soldiers joining him, soldiers he did not recognise. Their weapons and armour were unbloodied, and they threw themselves at the Daedra with vigour, reversing the roles and crushing their foes between themselves and the Blades. Taking a moment to look around, Martin realised that hundreds of fresh troops were slamming into the rear of the Daedra, slicing through their exhausted, surprised opponents with ease. Abruptly he heard someone yelling in his ear.

"Sire! General Phillida says the battle is won! We've surrounded the Daedra and we're killing them in their hundreds!" The Emperor looked down at the messenger, letting his soldiers flow around him to deal with the remnants of the Daedric horde. "It's over, sire. We've won!" The young Imperial looked ecstatic despite the blood on his face from a gash over his eye.

Martin turned wordlessly and walked free of the fray, squelching through the red mud. Sounds of shouting and roaring reached his ears as though from a great distance. Someone clapped him on the shoulder, but he barely felt it, not even seeing the man. He felt dazed, disorientated; exhaustion swept over him, turning his muscles to water and threatening to overpower him. The Emperor of Tamriel slumped to his knees amid the scattered corpses, looking numbly at the severed head of a Dremora. Someone was speaking to him, but he heard nothing. Realisation came slowly.

Somehow, they had won.

* * *

Gorgoth could feel his exhaustion as he trudged through the field of corpses, ignoring the bloodstained mud that splashed his boots and greaves. He had fought beyond his limits; for him to feel some part of his exhaustion despite his suppressing spell meant that he had pushed himself to the point of physical and mental collapse. Maintaining the concentration to even think straight was a struggle; he would need much rest upon his return to Cloud Ruler Temple, but even now time was crucial. This battle had changed nothing; thousands of lives had been spent merely to give them the chance to get to Paradise to retrieve the Amulet of Kings. An expensive choice, but there had been no other way; the Orc intended to make sure that it had been worth the cost.

What he could see of the battlefield was carpeted with dead mortals and the bodies of banished Daedra. The white snow was now slush stained a deep crimson, visible in the rare places where the corpses were spread thin enough to see the ground. Hundreds of years from now, bards might still be singing about this battle; they probably wouldn't include the reality of the aftermath. They rarely did. Wearily, the warrior-shaman removed his helmet as he marched onward, hanging it from his belt as he searched. He had called three times for Rauzkh, but he knew that his warhorse had likely survived for no more than a minute after his master had left him. His own legs would serve him well enough for now.

He finally found what he was looking for. The surviving Blades with the strength to walk – about twenty, most sporting wounds of some kind – made it easy for him to find the helmetless Martin, slowly walking back towards Phillida's hill with an arm wrapped around the Captain of the Imperial Bodyguard. It was uncertain as to who was supporting who; Renault had lost her helmet and most of her face was covered with a crusting of dried blood, but Martin's face was haggard and his shoulders were slumped. The ex-priest seemed to have aged ten years in half a day. It was unsurprising; he would doubtlessly have imitated Gorgoth in pushing himself past his own limits.

The warlord stopped and saluted, bowing slightly and pressing his fist to his heart. "Emperor." Martin might not have been officially recognised or crowned yet, but he had done more than enough to earn his birthright; in Gorgoth's opinion, that made him Emperor no matter what officialdom thought.

Lurching to a halt, the ex-priest responded with a nod. "It seems that once again, the world is in your debt, Gorgoth," he claimed, his voice leaden with fatigue. "Just a few minutes more, and the Daedric horde would have been too big to stop."

"And if the warriors of Tamriel hadn't held, Dagon would have won no matter what I did," replied the Orc. "If I am a hero this time, my Emperor, I am one among thousands."

Martin smiled wearily. "I thought you might say something like that." He scrubbed a gauntleted hand through his disarrayed hair, careless of the bloodstains he left behind. "I assume the Great Sigil Stone is safe?"

"Phillida left two men standing guard over it."

"Good." Some of the tension leeched out of the Emperor's shoulders. "I'll send someone to take it to Cloud Ruler Temple. For now, we need to oversee the healing and recovering of bodies. I-"

"_You_ will not be doing anything," Renault said firmly, cutting him off and fixing him with a hard stare that was undiminished by her having to arch her neck backwards to meet his gaze. "_You_, sire, look ready to collapse if you do anything more strenuous than breathe, so you will be returning to the Temple immediately unless you want to suffer the indignity of being carried through Bruma by your bodyguards." Judging by Martin's condition, he would be in no position to resist.

The Imperial grimaced. "I cannot abandon the wounded when they need a strong-"

"There's nothing you can do here except kill yourself through overwork, sire." The Knight Captain managed to look stern despite clinging to a man at least a foot taller than her. "Phillida is more than competent enough to see his soldiers through this aftermath. I will _not_ leave you vulnerable for a second longer than necessary."

Martin grunted and shook his head, but let her start guiding him towards Bruma's South Gate, the remnants of his bodyguard falling in beside him. Gorgoth watched them pass then turned to climb Phillida's command hill, ignoring the deep-buried exhaustion threatening to worm its way to the surface. Slowly the piles of corpses thinned as he made his way off the battlefield. The healers had already arrived from Bruma, priests and mages who had been too weak in battle magic to take part in the fighting now putting their knowledge of Restoration to good use. There would be too many wounded to heal, but the worst cases would be seen to, provided the wounded could actually get the healing. Most of the soldiers still fit to walk had been sent to carry those who could not move.

Attaining the broad summit of the hill, the warrior-shaman turned and looked out over the battlefield. What had once been a flat plan bordered by gently sloping hills was now punctured by the remnants of four Oblivion Gates amid a scene of desolation and carnage. Smoke rose from hundreds of craters where lightning had struck or the ground had erupted, and black scars across the terrain indicated where magical fires had erupted. Tamriel itself had been scarred in more ways than one by the invasion.

Gorgoth looked around him. The few soldiers not engaged on some task looked tired, drained, exhausted. Some were touching themselves in wonder as though surprised to find themselves still alive. Others were looking around with the hollow, vacant stares of those who suspected that none of their comrades – their friends – had made it out alive. Most hadn't; the warrior-shaman could tell that well over half the Imperial army was dead on the battle plain. They had fought like lions, fought harder than he would have normally thought possible for garrison troops and mercenaries. But they had died; the immortal Daedra, while repelled and defeated, had lost not a single soldier.

The corpses of mortals would be collected after the wounded had been dealt with, buried in graves or otherwise given funeral rites. The Daedric corpses would rot away quickly now that their souls were being reborn in Oblivion. They would leave behind a field soaked in the blood of thousands. There would be no joy in this victory, not for the soldiers of Tamriel who had lost so many friends and comrades. But the Hero of Kvatch, standing on that hilltop, swore to himself that their blood would not have been shed in vain.

* * *

Ilend cursed as he tripped over the body of a Khajiit, almost falling before he caught himself. His armour was dented and torn in several places, his shield had been completely destroyed, and several of his wounds leaked blood into his already sodden clothing. Fortunately, they were all minor, but much longer without seeing one of the healers and he would need to be carried back to Bruma. He forced down his fatigue and his weakness, however, and dragged himself forward, searching.

The end had come suddenly; he had been back-to-back with a dismounted Orcish cavalrymer, fighting desperately for his life and wondering if he would survive for just a few more seconds, when Dunmeri cavalry had taken the Daedra in the rear. That had stunned their enemies long enough for the reserve infantry from Bruma to arrive and put the wavering Daedra to the sword. Ilend had been tempted to collapse with exhaustion, but Aerin's unknown fate had driven him back to his feet, pausing only to clean his sword and sheathe it before starting off towards where he had seen her last.

All around him, soldiers were on their knees, panting with fatigue as the realisation of their salvation became clear to them. More were trudging up towards where the messengers had said the healers were. Ilend wove around them, peering in every direction, occasionally calling for his lover. His dry throat felt as though it had been scraped with a razor, and his once-powerful voice could only summon little more than a croak, but he kept calling until a figure in ebony armour stepped out in front of him.

"Stop that screeching, Vonius," growled Modryn Oreyn, his voice slightly distorted by his full-face helmet. Blood caked his dented armour, but he appeared unhurt. "Aerin's back that way." His thumb pointed behind him as he grabbed Ilend's arm with his other hand to stop the Imperial dodging around him. "Bleed much more, though, and she'll have to drag you to the healers. Take my last potion. You need it more than I do."

The Protector snatched the healing potion from his superior's hand and downed it in two gulps, grunting as he felt his wounds close. "Thanks, Oreyn." He let the bottle drop to the ground. "But excuse me."

"I know what that feels like, believe it or not," snorted the Dark Elf, but Ilend had already darted around him and started running in the direction he'd indicated. The Champion could regale him with tales of past love at a later date; for now, he had to make sure his own love was still alive. He ran, stumbling over corpses, slipping in the slick mud, dodging around soldiers. Finally, he found what he was looking for and slid to a halt, staring. He felt his fists clench, his sigh hissing through his teeth.

Aerin didn't look up as he slowly approached. She was on her knees, cradling Saliith's head in her lap, her entire body trembling. "Come on, Saliith, get up," she pleaded, shaking the Argonian by his shoulders. "Ya can't be dead, you're the bloody Grand Champion..." She dissolved into incomprehensible sobbing, hugging his upper body tightly to her. "Please don't be dead..."

Ilend grimaced as he stopped beside them. The Green Tornado was most definitely dead; the broken haft of a spear protruded from his stomach, deep gashes covered his torso, and a dagger had been driven all the way through his left thigh. One of his shortswords was still clenched in his fist, the entire length stained crimson. His glazed green eyes stared up at the sun, unseeing. The Imperial muttered a quick prayer for the lizard's spirit; hopefully, he and Branwen had found each other in Aetherius by now.

"Aerin." She didn't respond, so he leaned down and gripped her shoulder, his voice sympathetic. "He's dead, Aerin. There's nothing you can do."

She moaned, but slowly let her vice grip on the Argonian's corpse loosen. As he slid from her lap, the archer grabbed Ilend's arm, using him to haul herself to her feet before throwing herself at him, burying her face in his chest, heedless of the blood. He wrapped his arms around her, making sure she had no broken bones or other injuries before hugging her tightly to him. Some of the tension seeped out of him; she might be overcome with grief, but she was still alive. He would miss Saliith as well, but the former gladiator had made it clear that he would prefer a death that actually meant something. There had been no better time to die.

"How do you... deal with it?" asked Aerin eventually, her voice muffled by his chest. "All the death? Your friends dying around you?"

Ilend sighed. He knew she'd have to face up to the realities of war eventually. "It's hard," he admitted. "But in times like this... This is war, Aerin, and we have to mourn them quickly and move on. Remember them, yes... but honour their memory by fighting as hard as you can, without getting distracted by their memory. It's what he would want. You know it." He remembered how he had been almost consumed by rage and vengeance after Kvatch, and shuddered. He'd come to his senses; he only hoped that Aerin wouldn't suffer the same fate.

The Bosmer pulled back slightly, staring up at him, her anguished face smeared with blood and tears. "I can't do it, Ilend," she told him, her eyes glistening. "Not like... I can't do it. I'm not a soldier like you."

He shook his head sadly. "You are, Aerin. You have to be. Dagon has made soldiers of us all. We fight or we die." One of his hands moved upwards to stroke the back of her neck in what he hoped was a comforting manner. "At least we're still alive. We can make sure he didn't die in vain. Mourn him, then fight for his memory. Everyone dies, in time; at least he died well."

She leaned her head against his chest again, breathing heavily. Her grip on him grew even tighter. "I need to get out of here," she whispered after a few minutes, her voice so quiet he barely heard.

Ilend nodded. It would be hard to think straight while covered in blood and surrounded by corpses. "You're right. Let's head back to..." Bruma would likely hold too many bad memories at the moment, and he wanted to be alone with her, not in the middle of a whirlwind of activity. "There'll be rooms to spare at Cloud Ruler Temple," he said. "Are you bleeding? Best to get healed before making that walk."

"Uh..." The Bosmer let go and stumbled back from him, blinking as though it was hard for her to think. Her lover quickly looked her over before pressing a hand to her lower ribs, promoting a hiss of pain. He quickly formed what little remained of his magical reserves into a healing spell. She grunted as his magic closed up the wound as well as removing a few of her bruises.

"Come on," muttered the Guildsman, grabbing her hand and pulling her after him towards Bruma, away from the battlefield, away from Saliith's body. He'd known the full horrors of war would affect her eventually; he only hoped that she hadn't been damaged too badly.

* * *

As the bodyguard of the Emperor reached the Silver Road and turned north, Callia stopped and turned, looking back at the battlefield. The rest continued on without her, focused mainly on supporting their wounded and protecting Martin. On the other hand, the Breton felt that she needed some time alone to think; with twenty Blades around him and many other soldiers on the road, the Emperor wouldn't miss one extra protector. Removing her helmet, she let her hair fall freely as she wandered over to a nearby snow-covered rock and sat down with her back to it, wincing at the pain of her bruises. She'd got off relatively lightly, but the dents in her armour and the drying blood covering half her face told how it had been a hard battle for them all.

Sighing, she fingered her empty scabbard. Her katana had snapped in half by a Dremora after being weakened by a hunger's magics, and she had left the longsword she'd borrowed back on the battlefield. There would be many more katanas down there in the bloody mud, some broken, some whole. There would be more hanging up in the Great Hall of Cloud Ruler Temple before long. The Knight Sister grimaced as she realised how many they'd lost. Caroline in particular had been inconsolable after finding Baurus's mangled body. She only hoped that it had all been worth it.

And now all their hopes rested, once again, on Gorgoth. At least, she assumed that he would be the one to enter Paradise; she had to admit that he was the one most likely to succeed. Despite herself, the Breton had found her respect for the Orc increasing even more; not only had he invaded the Great Gate and brought back the Great Sigil Stone, but he had marched back into battle without hesitation despite suffering from exhaustion. She couldn't help feeling guilty about admiring someone she intended to kill; the feeling was irrational, but like a stubborn itch, it refused to leave her.

She was shaken from her reverie by heavy boots crunching through the snow nearby. The Blade looked up as Primo Varius slowly lowered himself to sit beside her, his helmet failing to hide his wince. There were several dents and holes in his armour, but the blood covering him had already dried. "Good to see you survived," he grunted after a few seconds, staring across at the hill where the healers were working.

"Thanks," she muttered, concealing her surprise by following his gaze. Why would he care about her? "How's Phillida? We owe his tactics a lot."

"He's fine. Putting soldiers half his age to shame with how much he's getting done. He's directing the wounded and the healers right now, as well as spreading what forces we have left to watch for any more Gates." A lopsided smile plucked at his face. "I fought by his side, briefly. He's still got fight left in him, though no one deserves his retirement more than he does." The Imperial slowly reached up and pulled his helmet off.

"Good thing he hadn't already retired. He knows what he's doing." Callia sighed. "We lost a lot of good people today." Unless she turned away from the battlefield, it was impossible not to be reminded of that fact. She made herself look; every single last fallen warrior down there deserved to be remembered. "Too many."

"There was no other way. They won't have died in vain. Gorgoth will make sure of that." The Breton half-turned to glare at him before remembering that he didn't know what she did about the warrior-shaman. Even so, she bristled every time she heard praise being given to the 'Hero of Kvatch'. The legionary continued, oblivious to her darkening mood. "No matter what he's like personally – I've heard a few things – you can't deny he's the best hope we have. I saw him fighting. He'll get what we need. I know it."

The Knight Sister stayed silent, pondering over the conviction in her companion's voice. She might hate the Orc, but she couldn't deny his ability to fight, nor his ability to inspire people. Much as she hated to admit it, he _was_ their only hope. From what she'd heard of Camoran, it was only Gorgoth who stood the remotest chance of defeating him in Paradise and bringing back the Amulet of Kings.

"Callia?" She turned to meet Primo's eyes, concern evident on his ruined face. "I'm sorry. I know how many the Blades lost. It... can't be easy for you."

She grunted. The pain of her wounds, the wonder of being alive, her preoccupation with Gorgoth and her determination to see things through had all distracted her from exactly what she'd seen in the fighting. Ferrum sinking to the ground, clutching at his torn throat. Belisarius collapsing, still slashing with his katana despite half his head being missing. Achille frantically trying to keep his guts from escaping the gaping wound in his abdomen. She took a shaky breath, finally allowing herself to feel the pain of losing her friends. Primo nodded sadly and grasped her shoulder. "I lost some of mine, as well."

The Breton grasped his hand, tightening her grip convulsively as she realised she was shaking with pain and anger. She tried to speak, but her tongue refused to form the words; there was an odd sensation in her throat. The legionary, however, seemed to know what she was thinking. "We'll make them pay, Callia," he growled, gritting his teeth, his voice thick with hatred. "We'll make those bastards pay."

* * *

**A/N: And so it ends... I'll admit that I'd thought of actually having the Imperials lose the Battle of Bruma and force Martin to perform the ritual in a besieged Cloud Ruler Temple, but I decided against it due to my plans for the last battle. Anyhow, I did say there would be character deaths aplenty... there's more to come yet, certainly, but as for now... well, I only hope I've developed the characters enough to make you feel something when they died.**

**Given how important these last two chapters have been for me (after all that build-up), I'd say reviews are needed now more than ever (except when I was first starting out; my writing was so bad then that I urgently needed all the advice I could get). Remember to be honest, and remember that I'm always appreciative of honest, helpful reviews. So tell me what you think...**

**The next chapter won't be nearly as action-packed as this one (for obvious reasons; you can't have a Battle of Bruma every chapter), but I've got something in mind for Paradise, something you might not expect... here's hoping I get it written without making you wait for too long.**


	50. The Silence of the Bards

**A/N: Yes, I have finally managed to get a chapter out within a somewhat decent timeframe. One of the reasons was because I got a lot of reviews for Chapter 49; I felt so guilty about letting you loyal readers down that I spurred myself on to finish this. Anyhow; thanks to all those who reviewed; keep it up:**

**A Fan: Good, good. If you care for the characters when I kill them, then I've succeeded in at least something...**

**Rokibfd: A healer can't reattach an arm, but that's all I'm saying about Gnaeus in this A/N. ;) And yes, the Nerevarine is still there and Vivec hasn't buggered off yet; his end is ambiguous so I've taken some small liberty there (who knows; I might write a fic about pre-Red Year Fourth Era Morrowind one day). As for Lord Fyr (I'm in his fan club, by the way), I'm fairly sure he and most of the Telvanni would take action if the right stimulus was applied; a Daedric invasion would probably affect them, after all. Anyhow, I corrected that typo, and I'm not one to lecture about late reviews, given how late I can be sometimes...**

**Underpaid Critic: Easy. I'll just have Gorgoth take one in his lunchbox. ;) There are no horses on Vvardenfell, presumably because of the Dunmeri diet and the harsh terrain, which better suits native guar. On mainland Morrowind, however, I think there'd be more use for horses, though they'd still be fairly rare.**

**As for Gorgoth's pride... he's a good enough Illusionist to know the limitations of invisibility. Given how battered his magical reserves were, it's doubtful that the spell would have lasted back to his front lines, and the Daedra could still feel and kill him. He had a better chance of survival if he used what little magic he had to preserve his life rather than use it trying to hide.**

**Bobb: Yes, and if you follow the game that slavishly, Gorgoth would be the Divine Crusader and the Grey Fox as well, not to mention Sheogorath. There's no reason for the Nerevarine to go gallivanting off to Akavir when Morrowind is his destiny, so I changed that to make more sense. Also, Vivec might have lost his divinity, but he was still a powerful warrior before he toyed with Kagrenac's tools, and I can't see the Ordinators switching their support from him to the Nerevarine so easily, so he'd still have both physical and political power in Morrowind for a time. And in the BaS universe, my Nerevarine certainly didn't kill him...**

**Random Reader: Yarp; that's definitely how it should be. People get killed and traumatised in war, so it wouldn't make sense to not show that. Good to hear it's working. :)**

**Just remember to keep these reviews up, people. They definitely do encourage me. Now, on with the chapter...**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty: The Silence of the Bards**

"How many casualties did we take?"

"Over two hundred dead for certain, Lord Gorgoth. Sixty wounded at least, and they're still finding more. The worst wounded will be healed, but I'll be seeing to the amputees myself. Most will ask for my blade." Gurbol grimaced; clearly he agreed with his mer in thinking that death was preferable to living on with no legs. "And we've lost over three hundred horses." The anger in his voice made it clear what loss he felt more. "A high price, Lord Gorgoth, but we had no room to wheel around for another charge. Even so, we did Orsinium and the Orcs proud today."

The warlord nodded. The Orcish heavy cavalry had been among the last to leave the field, and small detachments were still patrolling the vicinity, hunting for any Daedric stragglers. "You did well, Gurbol. I'm sorry I had to leave you."

"No, Lord Gorgoth." The grizzled cavalrymer shook his head, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "You did what you had to do. And you gave us the victory."

"The victory belongs to all of us." The warrior-shaman glanced up at the sun. They were standing on the Silver Road in the shadow of Bruma's South Gate, watching the steady stream of traffic to and from the city. Many of the corpses on the battlefield were yet warm, but Phillida had wasted no time in organising everyone within five miles to come and help move the wounded into the city where they could be given medical aid. Those with the worst injuries were being tended on the battlefield by every mage the General had been able to find with a scrap of Restoration knowledge.

Gorgoth knew that he wouldn't be able to ignore the exhaustion dragging at him for much longer, but he had his duties to attend to before returning to Cloud Ruler Temple. He had already found Modryn Oreyn and placed the Fighters Guild under the Champion's command until his return. "Your mer are now back under your command, Gurbol. Take them back to Orsinium if that is your desire; if not, offer your services to General Phillida. I have work to do up at the Temple."

Gurbol saluted. "It has been an honour, Lord Gorgoth," he said, pride evident in his voice as he straightened his back despite the protestations of his dented armour. "We'll be with you to the end, no matter where you go. Now, however, I have to see to my mer." The warrior-shaman nodded and returned the salute, watching as the cavalry commander turned and walked quickly back towards Phillida's command hill. From the way he was moving, he suspected that the Orc had at least three wounds under his armour, but it was highly doubtful that he'd let a healer anywhere near him so long as one of his mer or horses needed healing.

As for Gorgoth, he would be needed at Cloud Ruler Temple before long. He doubted that Martin would be opening the portal to Paradise today – both he and the Emperor were too exhausted to be good for anything without some rest – but he needed time alone to think. And he needed to find Mazoga; before the battle, Lurog had said that she had moved to Cloud Ruler Temple and wouldn't be taking part in the fighting, refusing to divulge any more than that. Distractions had prevented him from giving the matter too much thought, but now he intended to find out why his normally eager lover had suddenly locked herself away from one of the most significant battles in centuries.

He turned and marched through the South Gate into Bruma, returning the varied nods and salutes of the militia that had been left to guard the city. Some civilians were at their work, but many seemed to be milling around the southern streets, keeping the main roads clear for the walking wounded to make their way to the chapel but clearly not intending to miss out on anything. The warlord supposed many of them would have watched the battle from the city walls. A murmur went through the crowd, and they visibly rippled as he walked past, each straining to get a good look at him. Cheers went up; the crowd might not know his name, but they certainly seemed eager to give him titles. 'Saviour of Bruma' was a new one that seemed the most popular. The Orc shook his head as he walked on, lengthening his stride. He had closed the Gates, true, but Bruma would be burning if not for the several thousand soldiers who had given their lives in its defence.

One particularly enthusiastic Imperial leapt out from a side street and laid a hand on Gorgoth's arm, darting back as the warrior-shaman turned to look at him. His smile didn't even slip as his hero walked on without speaking; most likely he would regale his grandchildren of tales of how he had once shaken the hand of the Hero of Kvatch. Even King Gortwog – who was well-loved by most of his people – didn't get such hero-worship in Orsinium. Back home, Gorgoth could count on respect without rabid fanaticism, for the most part. The sooner he left Cyrodiil behind, the better. He would have to stay after the war to lead the regional Fighters Guild, of course, but setting up a teleportation link to his new home in Manruga wouldn't be too much trouble with sufficient help from some shamans.

Wide-eyed admiration dogged him all the way through Bruma. The limited vision of his helmet hid most of it, but the Orc knew that he was the focus of many eyes. They'd probably try to build a statue of him next. He left the crowds and their adulation behind as he left Bruma through the North Gate, forcing his tired body up the steep climb to Cloud Ruler Temple. The snow on the road had already been hard-packed by the passage of the Blades back up to their fortress, escorting both their Emperor and the Great Sigil Stone. If Gorgoth knew anything about Captain Renault, she was probably shoving Martin into his bed and standing over him until he went to sleep.

The sun had long passed its zenith and was on its way down towards the western horizon when the warrior-shaman walked through the open gates of the Temple and started to ascend the stairs. There were few Blades on duty; only the ten who had been left to guard the fortress seemed to be in sight. The rest were probably resting or tending to their wounds. Gorgoth removed his helmet and hung it from the hook on his belt, the chill of the cold wind negating the warmth of the sun on his bare skin. He reached the top of the stairs and halted, glancing around the courtyard. It was empty save for the lone Orc standing in front of the doors to the Great Hall.

"It's not like you to stay away from the fighting," observed the warrior-shaman as Mazoga rapidly closed the distance between them. She ignored his words and grabbed him in a fierce embrace, dragging his head down so she could kiss him with unrestrained passion. He returned the embrace just as eagerly, his hands running over her unarmoured body. While he could crush all feelings of longing and loneliness, that didn't mean he had to like being too long without her; he fully intended to make up for lost time whenever the situation allowed.

She finally pulled back after some time had passed, her rough, calloused hand tracing his jawline in an oddly gentle gesture. "I missed you," she said, her voice low. One of her arms was still wrapped around his waist, pressing her body against his despite his coating of dried blood and mud.

"I can tell," he said drily. He had missed her as well, of course, but such feelings were easy to suppress, at least in the short term. For the long term... well, he had never experienced love like this before. "I need-" He was cut off as she kissed him again, even more passionately and for longer. He growled with desire and thrust her back against one of the nearby columns, crushing her body between his and the pillar. "My blood is hot, Mazoga," he grunted when she finally wrenched her head back, breathing heavily. "I assume you occupied my rooms while I was gone?" She nodded eagerly, shoving him away from her and grabbing his arm, pulling him alongside her as she led the way to his quarters in the Royal Wing.

She kicked the door open and slammed it shut behind them before stepping over to help him remove his armour. He made sure to put his left gauntlet on the table, preventing the Nerevarine's letter from getting lost, before returning to helping her in her task with gusto. Within minutes she had stripped him of all armour, weapons and clothing. He returned the favour by ripping the shirt off her back and shoving her into the bedroom.

* * *

Some time later, Gorgoth was standing naked at the window, watching the shadows lengthen as the sun started to sink below the peaks of the Jeralls to the west. Soon, he would release the spell that held his exhaustion at bay and sleep deeply until late the next morning. But for now, he was thinking. Behind him, Mazoga sighed contentedly as she stretched out on the disarrayed bed, leaving him alone for now; she knew him well enough to know when he wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

Lurog's body would probably be found eventually, but right now there was no time for him to search for it. The important thing was that he had died well; Medraka would not have lied about that. He had died as any Bloodguard should; in battle, surrounded by fallen enemies, their blood on his weapons. Despite knowing that his Bloodguard had died an honourable death, Gorgoth still felt his loss keenly. The warrior had been one of the few he had been willing to call his friend, to trust with his life. There were far too few men or mer in his life that he was willing to trust to that extent, and few of them were as good as Lurog had been on the field of battle. But he had known the risks; both of them had. There were casualties in any war.

He turned from the window and looked over at Mazoga's naked form sprawled out on the bed. Losing his Bloodguard and friend had hurt him, but the feeling, like everything else, had been suppressed relatively easily. How easy would it be if she were to die? Love could so easily be turned into a weakness to be exploited; he was determined that such a thing would not happen to him. His heart was steel, and steel did not allow emotional attachments to blunt its edge. But there was no point in speculating on such things; if they happened, he would deal with it and move on.

Walking over to the bed, he took his lover's hands in his as she rose to greet him. "Lurog is dead," he said bluntly.

Mazoga cursed once and threw her arms around him, mumbling something incoherent as she started to sob into his chest. He certainly hadn't expected such an extrovert reaction; she had always been free with her emotions, and Lurog had been her friend as much as his, but he'd thought her harder than this. "How did he die?" she managed to ask after a few minutes, pulling back from him and angrily wiping away her tears.

"Medraka killed him. He died well. We cannot ask for more than that."

She nodded, sighing shakily and making a visible effort to control herself. "I should have been there, fighting beside him," she growled angrily, turning and starting to pace. "I should have- gah! Never regret, that's what you say." She shook her head angrily. "It's hard sometimes. A lot of the time, actually."

"You're rambling, Mazoga," observed Gorgoth, folding his arms. "He was a good Orc. One of the best I've ever known. But good men and mer die in wars. We have to absorb his loss and move on. Malacath will smile upon his soul."

"He just... he would have been such a good-" She stopped abruptly, turning away to hide her face. When she turned back to look at him, her expression was one of... anticipation. "Gorgoth, he stopped me fighting."

The warlord's tired mind tried to come up with any reason for Lurog's actions. Finding none immediately, he met her eyes, keeping his face expressionless. "Why?"

"Because I'm pregnant."

Gorgoth blinked and arched an eyebrow. Shock threatened to paralyse him, but he fought it down ruthlessly. "That was quicker than I expected," he grunted. Elves tended to pay for their longevity over humans by having lower birth rates. He hadn't expected to father a child for a long time yet; he hadn't even given the matter any thought for years, apart from idle speculation when boredom threatened to set in. _Malacath's blood, I'm going to be a father._ The thought seemed almost foreign. "I..." He had to suppress another shock when he realised that he was at a loss for words for the first time in his memory. "Lurog was right to keep you from the fighting," he managed, finally forcing himself to return to rational thought.

His lover – the future mother of his child – snorted. "I did see his logic. But you know me, Gorgoth; I _hate_ feeling useless, back up here when you're fighting and dying down there..." She trailed off as he strode over and enveloped her in a crushing hug.

"You're not being useless," he growled. "You're protecting our child. You're protecting the future." He pushed back and stared down at her, an intense light burning in his eyes. "It's your duty to make sure it makes it into this world. I know you will not fail."

She grimaced. "I won't. It's just... I never expected to be a mother."

"You can be a warrior and a mother at the same time. Lord Gurak's wife is one of his Bloodguard. If she can manage, so can you."

Mazoga nodded slowly. "I can. I'd just rather be fighting alongside you. You know that."

"And you will, after our child is born. But not before." He turned away from her, walking slowly over to the bed. He was going to be a father. Shaking his head, he dismissed the thought. It would happen eventually, but for now he had to prioritise. His son or daughter would not be born in the next few days, whereas Dagon's war machine was tearing Tamriel apart. There was no point in dwelling on what would happen far into the future when there might not even be a future left. He had to focus. And for now, he needed to rest.

He stopped maintaining his spell and almost staggered as the sheer exhaustion hit him, putting a hand against the wall for support before dropping onto the bed. Despite everything that plagued his thoughts, a hazy fog was swiftly clouding his mind, making it impossible for him to do much except close his eyes and shift around to get comfortable. He dimly felt Mazoga sliding in beside him and pressing her body against his back before he descended into the peaceful oblivion of deep sleep.

* * *

Adamus Phillida realised that he was rubbing his aching eyes and forced himself to stop. He refused even the slightest concessions to his age and fatigue when wounded men were in danger of freezing to death on a battlefield carpeted with dead bodies. The sun would soon be sinking beneath the western horizon; he had made sure that search parties were scouring every inch of the battlefield, but there was always a chance of some severely wounded soldiers being left behind. In the cold northern winter nights, their chances of survival would be slim. Bards often sung about battles; they rarely sung about the aftermath.

"General?" The Imperial looked up to see Vignar watching him with concern in his eyes. Forcing his back straight despite the weight of his armour, the General shifted his helmet in the crook of his elbow and shot the captain of his bodyguard a questioning glance. "They're ready for you."

"Good, good..." He looked around him, taking in the fine tapestries, thick carpets and smooth stone floors of the hallway of Countess Carvain's castle. It seemed odd that less than an hour previously he had been standing on a freezing, blood-soaked hill, barking orders every few minutes and looking down at long rows of wounded being tended to by healers and priests on the brink of collapse. Another Oblivion Gate had opened just over an hour ago, but the threat had swiftly been contained by Orcish cavalry and a mixed Gate-destroying squad had been sent in to close it. "How many battles have we been through together, Vignar?"

"Countless, General," responded the Nord, his scarred face displaying its usual lack of emotion. The massive head of his warhammer, visible over his shoulder, still had scraps of skin and bone clinging to the steel surface. "It won't be long now. You'll be retired in a few months. I'll probably end up freezing my arse off training recruits in Skyrim until I get my pension." He snorted. "After all these years, fighting in every corner of the Empire... I don't know what peace is going to feel like."

"Savour it, Vignar." Phillida met his old bodyguard's blue gaze and offered a hint of a smile. The two of them had first met over forty years ago when the freshly-recruited Nord had joined the Imperial's century. Within a year, Phillida had been promoted to command the entire cohort, and Vignar – who was already getting a reputation for his ferocity in battle - had been chosen by his superior to serve as his personal bodyguard since saving his life in one of the many wars fought during the Imperial Simulacrum. "We've devoted most of our lives to war. If anyone has earned peace, it's us."

The ageing Nord couldn't resist a slight smirk as they started towards the elaborately enamelled double doors at the end of the hall. "Knowing us, we'd probably get bored stiff before the first month is up. We're too old to start families, and..." he glanced down at his battered standard-issue Legion plate armour. The old warrior was technically a centurion and so was entitled to finer armour, but he claimed that blending in with the rank-and-file made his job easier. "I don't think I'll be handing this in when I retire," he claimed, tapping his breastplate. "Battle's in our blood. We might head off some place quiet and try to find our peace, but there's no point in denying who we'll always be." He was often very insightful for someone so many presumed to be just another legionary.

Phillida nodded. "I'll keep my sword and armour, that's for sure," he said. "I doubt people would let me forget who I was even if I tried. But I'm past seventy, Vignar; my fighting days are over. I just want to live out my days in the peace and tranquillity that I've earned. A time of relaxation before I pass on to Aetherius."

"No one's earned it more, General. It's been an honour." The bodyguard stopped at the oak doors and saluted, fist to heart, before shoving them open and preceding his superior into the room.

Countess Carvain's Great Hall was long and high-ceilinged, the stark stone floors and walls adorned with the yellow-and-black colours of Bruma. Behind her simple throne was a long banner bearing the Black Eagle of Bruma, its wings spreading directly over where the Countess would be sitting on official occasions. Normally, the Great Hall would be used to welcome nobles or officials, and occasionally petitioners or those who took advantage of the Countess's public hearings. Now, however, it was hosting a few dozen weary soldiers stained with the blood and grime of battle, along with the Countess and a few of her stewards who looked almost obscenely rich and clean in their court finery. All of them turned to look at the General as he entered.

He paused as Vignar let the doors close behind them, running his eyes over the assembled crowd. There were far less than there had been at the chapel before the battle; several would have fallen in combat, others would be wounded, and some would have preferred to stay with their men. Modryn Oreyn, his ebony armour barely recognisable under the layered grime, was talking to Arch-Mage Merissa, whose golden skin had an unhealthy grey tinge to it. Ulrich Leland looked even angrier than usual – probably due to the bandage covering where his left eye used to be – and Dion wore a slightly dazed look, leaning heavily on a walking staff. Burd was caked from head to toe in dried blood. Most of the other leaders were in no better shape. Phillida himself – with only a few bruises and heavy fatigue – appeared to have got off lightly.

"We won today. It's important to keep that in mind." Looking around, it almost appeared as though the General was addressing the heads of a defeated army rather than the victors of a decisive battle; his filthy men looked tired, drained. Then again, he had seen enough battles in his time to know that even the victors rarely left without deep scars of their own. "We won, and, Divines willing, we won't have to bring them to battle like that again." Relief appeared on a few faces, but he was stating the obvious; most of them knew what the battle had been for. "Bruma still needs men to defend it, however. Make sure your camps remain in order and treat your wounded the best you can. We still have to be ready for isolated Oblivion Gates. Continue with the pre-battle routines for dealing with them."

"How many casualties did we take overall?" asked the leader of the contingent of Redguard Bronze Shields. His armour was barely dented; the elite warriors had been one of the strongest bastions in the battle line.

"Accurate counts are difficult at this time, of course, and we had no precise figure for our numbers even before the battle, but..." Phillida grimaced; not knowing the exact numbers grated, but he had to work with what he had. "We started the battle with approximately seventy-five hundred armed effectives, not counting the militia. Early counts suggest that at this moment in time, we have little more than fifteen hundred armed effectives." Someone grunted, but the old Imperial held up a hand. "Once wounded are healed and others recover from exhaustion, that number is expected to rise to over three thousand. We have, however, lost at least three thousand dead, and many of our wounded won't be fit for battle for a long time. Some will never fight again." He paused. "I will stress again, however, that at this time our counts are extremely inaccurate."

"What really matters is that in a few days this war might well be over because of what we did here today," interjected Oreyn. "The Guild lost over a hundred and fifty from the near four hundred we bought here, but we'll be with you to the end."

"The battlemages took no casualties," said Merissa, shockingly speaking without being prompted. "Many are exhausted, but they will be able to resume battle readiness or help with the healing tomorrow." She herself looked like she could benefit from a full week's rest rather than just one night.

Phillida nodded. The battlemages were undoubtedly his most potent weapon against the random Gates. "We will stay around Bruma until we get word otherwise from Cloud Ruler Temple," he told all of them. "We still have fifteen hundred men to defend the city with tonight; if it doesn't fall by morning, we'll be in good shape. Now get some rest. You all deserve it."

He stepped back and the meeting dispersed, most of the soldiers filing past him through the doors, inclining their heads as they passed. Several might see more combat this day if Dagon opened another Gate. His attention was diverted as the Countess walked up to him, nodding respectfully. She might be a noble and he a born commoner – he had worked his way up through the ranks from the very bottom – but she also appeared to be one of those few nobles who believed in deeds speaking louder than blood. "General, I want to thank you on the behalf of the citizens of Bruma. What we did was a risk-" her mouth twisted slightly at that; no ruler could possibly like putting their city in such a great danger "-but you and Martin made sure we were never threatened. Your soldier's blood paid for our safety; make sure they know of my gratitude."

Phillida smiled slightly. "Thank you, my lady, but spare your thanks until this war is over. The threat is constant, after all."

She returned the smile and shook her head. "No, General. You deserve it now, no matter what happens in the future. Tomorrow I'll visit the camps and pass on my message directly to your brave soldiers." One of her stewards, standing beside Burd, cleared his throat and waved her over. "Keep up the good work, General," said the Countess as she left him.

"Nice to see a blue-blood finally appreciating what we do," muttered Vignar, standing at his right shoulder and speaking too quietly to be overheard. He had a famously disparaging view of nobles who didn't fight alongside their soldiers, seeming to think that every aristocrat should act like Jarl Ulfgar of Falkreath, who had personally led his men into an Oblivion Gate and closed it.

The Imperial was tempted to roll his eyes, but instead merely turned to his most trusted companion. "Go and see to the men. I'll be along soon to see how they're doing before heading up to Cloud Ruler Temple for the night." His bodyguard saluted and turned smartly on his heel, moving off to check on how the General's bodyguard was coping. Many had fallen alongside the Blades, and most of the survivors had wounds of some kind, but they had fought shoulder-to-shoulder with one of the most elite units in the Empire and matched them blow for blow; they would be holding their heads high.

"One of the bloodiest days of my life, and I've seen a lot of fighting," observed Modryn Oreyn as he joined Phillida. The Dark Elf looked around furtively and lowered his voice. "Count on Dagon increasing his attacks. We won't last long if he forces us into numerous small-scale battles."

"I know. We have to put all our trust in Gorgoth now. Everything depends on him getting the Amulet of Kings back before we're overrun." Grandmaster Steffan had been adamant that as few people as possible knew about the warrior-shaman's planned destination; he had been slightly annoyed when he'd found that the Guildmaster had told his Champion everything, but at least Oreyn seemed like a mer who could be trusted.

The Dunmer grimaced. "I never liked relying so much on just one lone warrior to save us all, but..." He shook his head and stared off to the side. "I'm over a hundred and fifty years old, General, and I've never met anyone as dangerous as him. And he's hard. Brutal, even. But that is exactly what we need right now." He snorted. "Besides, I never liked a Guildmaster who was soft on the recruits. He's an elf of pure steel."

Phillida thought back to when he had first met Gorgoth – when he was still carrying the Orc's mace around on his back – and grunted. "I know what you mean. He'll do what needs doing." He sighed resisting the urge to knuckle his aching back. "But for now, I have to be seeing to my men. I'll count myself lucky if even half survived." Finding out who had died would be painful for him; most of them had been his bodyguards for many years, and he had hoped to see out his career without losing another man.

"I'll do the same. The Cyrodiil Guild lost nearly a quarter of its fighting strength today. Me and Gorgoth will have some rebuilding to do." The Dunmer sighed and shook his head as he took his leave, already starting to mutter under his breath.

The Imperial followed Oreyn out, suppressing a shiver as he left through the castle's formidable front doors. He had been five years younger the last time he'd been stationed somewhere this cold, and his old body wasn't as good as ignoring the elements as it used to be, particularly when he needed to rest. The sun was barely visible between the peaks of the Jeralls to the west, and the chill of the approaching night was already cutting through his armour as though it was paper. From what little he could see of Bruma through the castle's open gate, there was little in the way of celebrating or rowdy drunkenness that often appeared in a city after a victory; all the soldiers knew as well as he did that their battles were far from over, and the citizens had been quick on the uptake.

There was still much to be done. Phillida donned his plumed helmet and pulled on his gauntlets, breathing deeply before descending the stairs before him and leaving the castle's grounds. His fatigued body protested, but he had work to do; he would sleep when he was dead.

* * *

Through the windows of the quarters in Cloud Ruler Temple's Royal Wing that Ilend had commandeered, Aerin could see the last rays of the sinking sun finally giving way to the star-studded blackness of night. Her lover had already built a roaring fire in the large hearth, but she still felt cold. Upon entering, she had dropped Trueshot, her quivers and her sword belt on a nearby table and slumped down into an armchair near the hearth, staring into nothingness as her wet boots slowly created puddles on the fine green carpet.

Saliith was dead. She might have only known the Argonian for less than half a year, but he had been one of the closest friends she'd ever had in her short life. He was one of the first true friends she had made in that lonely period after leaving her father to live her own life, just after she had joined the Arena out of desperation. And now he was gone. She would never hear his rasping laughter again, never see him casually juggle his throwing knives again. She would never playfully insult his tail again.

Ilend was speaking to her, she realised. The Imperial had removed his armour and was sitting across from her, concern dominating his face as he looked into her eyes. "What?" she mumbled.

He sighed, looking down at his hands for a moment before meeting her eyes again. "I know something of how you feel," he muttered. "I experienced it myself, back when I was a new recruit in the Watch. I've seen others feel it over the years." The Guildsman leaned forward. "Losing a good friend like that is always hard, and the first time is often the worst. But you can't let your grief become an obsession. You've got to move on." He stretched out a hand. "It pains me to see you like this."

The archer stared at his hand for a few seconds before grasping it, gripping it tightly to stop her hand from shaking. "I'll move on," she heard herself say. "But I... I can't just forget him like that." She dimly wondered if the pain she felt inside her would ever stop.

Ilend stood up, gently drawing the Bosmer to her feet and placing his free hand on her shoulder. "Don't forget him," he said. "I remember all my friends lost at Kvatch, I remember Selene, I remember... I remember Menien." A grimace twisted his features for a moment. "But you can't let him distract you to the point where you're consumed by his memory. Let that happen, and..." He shook his head and sighed again. "I fell into that trap after Kvatch, and my rage nearly got us both killed. No... remember him, fight for his memory, but you've got to move on and focus on the living. You can't help him any more. Let him go."

"But..." The image of Saliith's battered corpse flashed before her eyes, and she realised that tears were streaming down her cheeks. "It's..." She pressed her face into her lover's muscular chest, her arms wrapping around him and gripping him as though he was the only thing stopping her from falling into a bottomless abyss. "I can't do it," she sobbed. "It's too hard, Ilend. I'm not like you. I can't..." She trailed off, her fists tightening in the rough wool of his shirt.

"The more you love them, the harder it gets," he told her, running one hand through her hair. "Different people deal with it in different ways. Some can cope, some can't. You can. I _know_ you can." The conviction in his voice was so strong that she raised her head to meet his eyes. They were burning with a bright intensity. "I love you, Aerin. I _know_ you have the strength to get through this."

"I..." His trust and confidence was like a fire lighting in her heart, but Saliith's glazed eyes still intruded when she let her thoughts drift. "I wish I was so sure of myself. I just can't seem ta think of anything else. I can't..." she let her voice trail off again, struggling to think of what else to say; how could she possibly express the jumble of emotions threatening to tear her apart?

"For the love of the Divines, Aerin!" barked Ilend, his suddenly harsh tone shocking her so much that she let go of him. His jaw was set in that stubborn look that he normally got when doggedly pursuing an argument. "You won't be helping anyone – least of all yourself – if you just sit around and mourn for him for years. _He_ wouldn't want you to remember him like that; he'd want you to respect that he died well, grieve for him, and then get on with your life and be happy. _That's_ what he'd want! Not for you to mope around up here and drown in your own misery!" The Imperial shook his head, his chest rising and falling. "You have to let him go, Aerin," he continued, his voice softer. "He's happier where he is now. You won't help anyone by living in the past. Honour him and then keep moving forward."

The Wood Elf stared at him for a second before turning and walking to the window, glancing out at the stars but not really seeing them. He was right, she realised; her friend was dead and gone, and she couldn't help him by descending into a world of grief and tears. Gorgoth had told both of them what had happened to Vilena Donton. Pressing a hand against the window pane, she closed her eyes. She had never been particularly religious – calling upon the Nine only for use in expletives – but she offered a prayer for her friend's soul nonetheless. "I'll be seeing ya later, Twitch-Tail," she whispered softly to herself, wiping her wet cheeks. The memory of him still pained her – it would for a long time, she suspected – but it no longer dragged at her as much.

She turned from the window and looked across the room at her lover. His blunt, broad face was a picture of pain and worry. It was only then that she realised just what he had been through in his life; he had faced what she'd had to face, yet he was standing before her now, tall and proud, not curled up in a snivelling ball in the corner. He had known how to deal with her precisely because he himself had been in her position, and it had worked. The Bosmer slowly walked back over to him and offered him a weak smile. "Thanks. For everything." She cleared her throat, feeling a surge of affection for the man in front of her.

Ilend returned the smile and gently touched her cheek, tracing his thumb over the line of her jaw. "Sorry if I hurt you, but..." He shrugged, a look of reminiscence passing over his face. "It's the method Savlian Matius used with me. He said that if a man ever got like you were, the best method to get them out of their stupor was to either give them a swift kick or..." He chuckled and shook his head. "...or find them a pretty girl to take to bed. I sensed you weren't in the mood for that second option."

Aerin giggled and hugged him, feeling some of the tension finally start to leech out of her body. He guided both of them closer to the fire, and they stood in companionable silence for a few moments. The archer looked up to find her lover staring into the flickering flames, a contemplative look on his face. "Ilend?" He blinked and looked curiously down at her. "If ya don't mind me asking... what was your first loss like?"

He sighed, looking as though he had been expecting the question. "I guess it's your right to know..." He let go of her and lowered himself into the seat nearest the fire, smiling slightly when the Bosmer curled up on his lap, leaning her head on his shoulder. The Guildsman was far from the most comfortable seat she'd ever used, but the closeness of his powerful presence comforted her. He rested one of his hands on the top of her leg and shifted slightly, leaning his head back against the chair and staring off into space. "I left Skingrad and went to Kvatch when I was eighteen. Half a year later, I joined the Kvatch City Watch. You know that already." She nodded, waiting patiently; from the grim look in his eyes, he wasn't enjoying the memory.

"I had been in the service for just under a year when it happened. I was on the graveyard shift on the main gates, late at night when all the decent people were normally sleeping. There were six of us on the ground, and six more up on the walls either side of the gate. It was a quiet night. Cold, but clear. You could see all the stars." His lip curled into a grimace. "I'm no astronomer, but even I could see the Serpent clearly that night. It was a coincidence, most likely, but I still shudder whenever I see it." Aerin grunted in sympathy; there were some who claimed that the Serpent was always a harbinger of some kind of evil.

"My best friend in Kvatch was Sergius Maximus. He was my age, near enough, and he'd joined the Watch only a few months before me. A good bloke, he was. Great sense of humour. Kept everyone in the barracks entertained. He was in the bunk above me." He smirked mirthlessly. "He was big, as well, nearly as big as me. Snored like a pig, but we learned to ignore it after a while." The Imperial sighed, his free hand clenching into a fist. "Anyhow, we were both on gate duty that night, huddling as close as we could to the brazier and grumbling about anything and everything. It was a normal night, until the call came down to open the gates."

"We got them open enough to let an adventurer through, a Redguard in dented steel plate armour. His sword was chipped in several places, and he wasn't in good shape. He told us that he'd been attacked by a highwayman who'd followed him up our road and was currently outside on the plateau in front of our gates, waiting for anyone to come out again. A damned good highwayman, according to the adventurer. At least, he assumed it was a highwayman. The Watch Sergeant for that night was Menien Goneld, and he sent up to the barracks for reinforcement while asking for volunteers to deal with this threat to the peace. The adventurer was too wounded to help out, but five of us ending up going, including me and Sergius." Ilend paused and sighed, closing his eyes.

"To cut a long story short, it wasn't a highwayman. It was a madman who found out he loved killing more than anything else. In the dark, we didn't see him until he put a poisoned arrow through Sergius's throat. It took all four of us to kill him, and he wounded Menien badly. We got him to Martin in time for healing, though. But for Sergius... it was already too late. We couldn't even get him into the chapel in time. He died in my arms, lying on the cobbles of the courtyard." The Imperial's eyes opened, full of pain. Aerin, unsure of what else to do, wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Menien pulled me off duty and sent me straight back to the barracks. I was feeling numb, but I got out of my armour and into my bunk and tried to sleep. Then I realised that I'd never hear Sergius snoring above me again." He sighed through gritted teeth. "That's what finally cracked me. I went to pieces. Then Savlian Matius arrived and took me off to where we could talk alone. That was when he kicked me back into shape." The Guildsman turned his head to meet his lover's eyes. "It still hurts to remember it, and it always will. But I got over it. You'll get over Saliith as well, in time."

She nodded, pressing her face into his neck. "I will," she told him. And she would; as long as she had her lover, her rock of support, she could get through anything. "Just don't die, ya hear me? Don't die." If _he_ died... she shuddered and gripped him tighter.

* * *

The largest training room in Cloud Ruler Temple was oddly crowded given that most of the Blades were still exhausted from the earlier battle. Many, however, were seeking to bury their grief for fallen comrades through intense activity; the sparring areas were full of sweating, bare-chested warriors fighting their comrades with wooden swords. Lathar was sitting on his usual stall, occasionally shouting some of his customary barbed advice, but he was far more muted than normal; he hadn't taken part in the battle, and knew not to test those that had. A few other Blades who had stayed behind – mostly older soldiers – were hanging around, talking with their fellow Knight Brothers and Sisters, trying to get an idea of what the battle had been like. None of them had noticed the old man standing quietly in the far corner.

Gnaeus Magnus watched the younger warriors sparring in silence, careful not to make any move. Sneaking back into Cloud Ruler Temple had been relatively easy despite his weakness from blood loss – the Ring of Khajiiti was an invaluable tool, and he'd learnt long ago how to move lightly on his feet – but he wasn't ready to reveal himself to those who knew him. Not yet.

He'd never met the nameless soldier who'd found his bleeding body on the battlefield, nor the healer who'd sealed up his wound, leaving him with a right arm that ended an inch below his shoulder. Upon waking up in Bruma's chapel, the ex-hermit had left his armour in a bundle beneath a pew and left, ignoring the protests of the healers. He didn't know why he made for Cloud Ruler Temple, and he didn't know if there was even any point in living any longer; all he knew was that he had to find some way of dying with some shred of dignity.

His death would be very soon; he'd accepted that fact long ago. He could fight with his left hand, of course – it had been part of his initial training all those decades ago – but it had always been his weaker side, and the shock of losing his arm had taken a toll on his already ravaged body. If he didn't fall in combat soon, he would suffer the indignity of a slow, creeping death, old age making him a burden to others before he finally wheezed his last.

The clack of wood on wood brought his mind back to the present. Caroline had been one of the first Blades to enter the room, so he'd gathered, and hadn't stopped fighting since, despite clearly battling exhaustion. No doubt she'd lost someone particularly close to her. Gnaeus wouldn't suffer the same loss again; all desire to build any kind of friendship had left him when Selene died. Any relationship would be useless now in any case; it would bring only sorrow and mourning after his inevitable death. His only remaining ambition was to be able to spit in Dagon's eye as he died.

Raising his hand to his mouth, he took the Ring of Khajiiti off his finger with his teeth, spitting it into his palm and shoving it into the pocket of his tunic before walking out into the light. Ignoring the glances of the Blades, he walked over to a tall bucket full of practice blades and slid one out, hefting it to test the weight before gripping the ridged hilt firmly. Hunger gnawed at his stomach – he hadn't eaten since before dawn – but he shrugged it off and turned back to the room, looking for someone willing to help him take his mind off his troubles. He didn't have to wait; an exhausted Callia Petit dropped her sword and staggered away from Roliand, pausing only to grab a towel from one of her comrades before slumping down with her back against the wall. Gnaeus wasted no time in striding forward and firmly planting himself in front of the huge Nord, who raised an eyebrow at his stump but otherwise did nothing but raise his practice blade.

"Don't go easy on me," growled the Imperial, not giving the Blade a chance to reply as he sprang forward, wooden blade darting for his adversary's neck. Roliand parried the blow and took a step back, flicking aside two more attacks before striking at the ex-hermit's flank. Spinning away from the attack, Gnaeus grunted as he unexpectedly staggered; he was used to having the weight of his right arm balancing him. Stepping back rapidly, he dodged another blow and then lunged forward, jabbing towards the Nord's abdomen. His opponent jerked sideways, suffering a scratch across the ribs, but less than a second later his blade cracked into the side of the Imperial's neck.

Wincing, Gnaeus stepped back, attempting to raise his right hand to touch the painful welt before remembering that he didn't have a right hand any more. Roliand eyed him with something like wariness, keeping his weapon at the ready. "Seems I'm going to need more practice before I'm much of a threat to a Dremora," said the ex-hermit, shifting back into a combat stance. "Come on. If I'm going to die well, I can't afford to be an easy kill. You up for beating on an old man for a few hours?" The Knight Brother nodded, his face hardening. "Good." Gnaeus stepped forward and threw himself into his practice, clearing his thoughts and losing himself in the chaos of combat.

* * *

Martin woke slowly, coming out of a deep slumber with reluctance despite his troubled dreams. He opened his eyes and blinked a few times, staring uncomprehendingly at the roof of his large four-poster bed as his sluggish mind attempted to decipher what exactly had woken him. The answer was provided by Grandmaster Steffan diplomatically clearing his throat. "It's two hours past sunrise, sire," he said, standing stiffly to attention at the foot of the bed. "Not that you can really tell, what with the snow that's hammering us."

The Emperor grunted with annoyance and sat up, shivering as the blankets slipped down his bare chest but forcing himself to ignore it. "I've slept for too long," he muttered, pushing his tousled hair back out of his eyes. "Why didn't you wake me before?"

Steffan snorted. "I'd have woken you an hour ago, but even now it almost took a direct order to stop your Captain of the Imperial Bodyguard physically blocking my entrance to your quarters." Unable to suppress a smirk, he nodded towards Captain Renault, who was standing rigidly beside the door to Martin's antechamber.

Martin rubbed his upper lip, hiding his wry smile. "Well, I'm not going to stop her from doing her job," he replied, climbing out of bed and walking over to his wardrobe. He was naked, but Sanguine's orgies had rapidly stripped him of what little modesty had remained to him. "We'll open the portal to Paradise today, but I still need to go over the Xarxes to make sure I've got the ritual perfected, and Gorgoth has to be fully rested first. Is there anything you have to report?"

"Only one thing, sire. We've taken care of everything else here, and General Phillida has the situation well in hand. He's based here, but his messengers are coming and going frequently." The Imperial's voice was grim, and Martin suddenly got the feeling that he knew what was written on the sheet of parchment in the Grandmaster's hand. "This is the casualty list, sire. We took eighty-seven Blades to the battle, sixty of whom formed your personal bodyguard. The rest went with me." He paused. "We lost thirty-eight dead. Most of the wounded were healed, but some..." He grimaced; there was no need to voice the fact that some wounds could not be healed. "Four lost arms or legs; they'll never fight again."

The Emperor finished belting his trousers and took the list, studying it carefully, committing each name to memory. These men and women had fought and died for him; he would remember them until his dying day. They deserved that much, at least, that and the honour of their katanas hanging in the Great Hall. The four cripples would retire into the Talos Cult with generous pensions, most likely; he would talk with each of them before the day was out. He had known few of the forty-two on the list personally, but even so, their loss pained him; they had willingly given their lives so that he might live. They had died because of him. Now he knew his ancestors must have felt like when they sent their Legions to fight and die for them.

Looking up, he saw his own pain reflected in the eyes of the two Blades. Of course; they, unlike him, had known their comrades personally. "I'll meet the wounded personally later," he told them. "As for the rest... did they have families, relatives...?"

"I'll take care of that," responded Steffan. "You have more important tasks than clerical duties." He saluted, fist to heart. "By your leave, my Emperor." He waited for Martin's nod before turning and leaving the room. Just past the doorway, however, he paused. "Each of us would die for you, Martin, a thousand times over, and be happy." He closed the door behind him without waiting for a response.

The Emperor looked at the door for a few seconds before carefully placing the casualty list on his bedside table and pulling a shirt on. "Did you get any sleep yourself, Captain?" he asked.

"I got enough, sire." Had his mood been lighter, the Imperial would have grinned; she had probably slept four hours at most. Given what had happened to his father and half-brothers, he couldn't blame her for being over-protective. He pulled on the same tattered robe he'd worn from Kvatch and belted it, glancing over at the stand where his gilded plate armour stood, arranged as though he was wearing it. One of the Blades had cleaned the blood off, but it would take attention from the armourer to repair several chips and dents.

"Well, don't stand guard until the point of collapse. There are Blades in this fortress equally capable of protecting me." He looked across the room and met her eyes. "I've already had thirty-eight people die for me, Cassandra. Don't let exhaustion cost me a thirty-ninth."

A ghost of a smile broke through the Breton's look of fixed neutrality as she saluted. "As you command, my Emperor. I'll be waiting outside." She left the room. Martin turned to look at Goldbrand, sitting on a stand near his armour. It had served him well in the battle, and he was tempted to attach it to his belt, but he left it where it lay and took his plain steel dagger instead. In the Temple, he would have both the Blades and his magic to protect him, and he preferred to have as little contact with the Daedra and their artefacts as possible. Rubbing a hand over his stubble and deciding that he could put off shaving until later, he sat down on his bed to pull on his boots.

After washing and combing his shoulder-length hair into some semblance of neatness, he left his bedchamber, nodding to Renault and sifting through the small pile of papers on his writing desk. Finding nothing new or important, he turned to his bodyguard. "I want the reagents for the ritual ready to be assembled in the Great Hall, near the hearth. I want Gorgoth invading Paradise before the day is out." One battle had ended; another, far more important, was about to begin.

* * *

Gorgoth stood alone on the windswept walls of Cloud Ruler Temple, staring out into the distance and ignoring the snow falling on his head and shoulders, streams of water running down the folds and lines of his battle plate as it melted. All four of his weapons were strapped to his belts, along with a full stock of potions and two Welkynd Stones. His helmet hung from its hook at his hip, ready to be donned in an instant. To the inhabitants of the Temple, he appeared ready and willing to go to battle in a heartbeat. In fact, the warrior-shaman was in deep thought, attempting to formulate a battle plan. It was hard, however, to plan for an endeavour that all his instincts were telling him was a suicide mission. Yet he could not fail. The world was depending on him; if he failed, all was lost.

He remembered his previous encounter with Camoran. His own preparations had been hasty, true, but the fact remained that the Altmer, despite being surprised, had overwhelmed him. And now Gorgoth would be coming to him, not on the neutral battlefield of Tamriel, but in the world that Camoran had created for himself. His enemy held every advantage; how, then, was the Orc to win?

The warrior-shaman was still pondering this vital question when he was joined on the battlements by someone he hadn't expected to see out in this weather. "Greetings, Aerin," he said, turning his head slightly so he could see her in the corner of his eye. "What brings you here?"

She didn't answer immediately, huddling deeper inside her thick cloak and pressing herself against his side as though she could extract some warmth from beneath his layers of steel. "I want ta talk, Gorgoth, but..." The Bosmer looked up at the dark, threatening clouds that loomed overhead and shivered. "Could we go some place warmer?"

In response, he stepped away from her and cast a magical shield around her body, the snow impacting the invisible barrier and dripping down to the stone under her feet. At the same time, he magically warmed the air inside the shield. The archer looked around and held out a hand, raising an eyebrow but clearly impressed. "Much obliged," she said, turning to look up at him, throwing back the hood of her cloak. "Not making one for yourself?"

Gorgoth shook his head. "Why would I? This weather would be called autumnal in the Wrothgarians. It is good to feel the chill of a cool wind on your skin sometimes." Snowflakes were turning his war braids white in places, and water was trickling down his neck into the furs he wore under his armour, but he was used to far worse than this in the winters of Orsinium.

Aerin rolled her eyes. "Should have known," she muttered under her breath. She cleared her throat and moved closer. "I heard about Lurog," she started.

"Do not mourn him. He died exactly as he would have wanted. I will honour his memory, but I will not dwell on his passing." He turned to meet her eyes. To her credit, she held his gaze. "You did not come out in this weather to make small talk. What is it you want?"

The Bosmer sighed, looking down at the melting snow around her feet. "Defeating Camoran ain't going ta be easy, is it?"

"No." Gorgoth shook his head, resting his hands on the edge of the outer wall. "I barely survived our battle at Lake Arrius. He is a more powerful mage than I am, with hundreds of years of experience. And now we will be fighting in the plane that he created himself." He stared expressionlessly out into the swirling whiteness. "I cannot see any way of defeating him. I will learn more when I enter Paradise, of course, but at the moment... victory is far from certain."

"Are ya _sure_ ya have ta go in alone? Someone could..."

"Martin said the ritual is very specific. Only one can enter. And there never seemed to be any doubt as to who should be the one to go." The Orc snorted. He wondered if those putting their blind faith and trust in him had ever considered the possibility that he might fail.

The Wood Elf raised her head again, biting her lip. "You'll need all the help ya can get, right?"

"It does not shame me to admit that I am not the equal of Camoran. I will make use of whatever I can."

"Then..." She sighed, shaking her head as though arguing with herself. Finally, she stepped closer, arching her neck to meet his eyes and forcing him to expand the shield to cover both of them. "Take Trueshot. Ya never know when it might be useful. Could give you an edge."

Gorgoth arched an eyebrow slightly. "That bow means almost as much to you as Ilend does. Your trust in me must be absolute for you to even consider this."

Aerin smiled. "I've learnt a lot since ya picked me up all those months ago, big guy," she replied, turning to stand beside him and watch the snow fall. "Back then, you'd need something special ta prise it away from me. But now... it's just a bow, ain't it? A bloody powerful bow, but I could get a new one. I couldn't replace Ilend or you so easily." She rested her bare hands on the snow-covered wall, watching as the heating spell surrounding her instantly began to melt the frozen rain. "If ya fail in Paradise, we're all dead. So take it. It ain't going ta be much use sitting back here with me."

"You truly have changed. For the better." The young, carefree, innocent gladiator he'd met all those months ago had largely survived, but he could tell that she had also matured. Those deep blue eyes had been aged by what they'd seen. "I often find it odd how trust is so easily placed in someone you truly don't know. What _do_ you know about me?" He was curious; he'd told her little, but she might have heard more.

She snorted. "Not as much as I'd like. You've hardly told me much, and I don't like asking behind your back, but..." She looked up at him and spread her arms. "I don't care. I don't need to know everything you've done in your past. I trust ya. And I like ya, somehow. Never thought I'd have ended up feeling _that_." An exasperated smile spread across her face. "I know, I know. You're probably going ta tell me you've committed some unforgivable crime in the past. But I don't _care_, big guy. I like ya for who you are now." The Bosmer chuckled. "Divines, that sounds stupid. If you'd told me back when we first met that I'd end up like this, then I'd have laughed in your face. Well, not _your_ face... I seem ta recall you almost strangling me ta death soon after we met?"

Gorgoth suppressed a smile. "I was asking you an important question. It seemed wise to impose myself."

"Impose yourself? Ya had me pinned ta the wall of my own shack with my boots two feet off the ground!" The Wood Elf laughed and playfully punched his upper arm. "Then again, ya probably thought I was going ta report ya for murdering the Emperor. I don't blame ya." Her expression grew more serious again. "So now here we are..." She shrugged off her cloak and took Trueshot off her back, also removing her quiver and rummaging around in her pockets for her bowstrings. "Take it," she said, holding out the weapon. "Whether ya need it nor not, it'll be more use in Paradise than it will be out here with me."

The warrior-shaman slowly took the unstrung bow, attaching the half-full quiver to his belt before running his gauntleted hands over the silver-worked enchanted wood. Built for Argonians, it would effectively be a short bow for him, but its penetrative power would be greater than even his massive Orcish battle bow. It would certainly be an option worthy of consideration when fighting Camoran. "I hope ya can shoot straight," observed Aerin as she watched him string it, unable to hide her anxiousness.

"Not as well as you," admitted the warlord, testing the draw and nodding in satisfaction. "But then, there are few who can. I generally hit what I aim at. Though keep in mind that magic is a far more potent weapon than this bow will ever be."

"I know," admitted Aerin. "But it's another option, ain't it? Besides, this way I don't feel so bloody... _useless_."

Gorgoth lowered Trueshot and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You, Aerin, have been far from useless in this war. You have fought well and bravely. I doubt Malacath has ever noticed you, but if he had, I do not think he would be displeased." He tightened his grip. "They call me the Hero of Kvatch, but there is more than one hero in this war. You have done well."

In the time he'd known her, the Bosmer had rarely been rendered speechless, but it appeared that now was one of those times. Her mouth opened then closed then opened again as she struggled for words. "T-thanks, big guy," she finally managed to stammer. "That... Coming from you, that means... a lot." She stepped forward and hugged him despite his armour and the fact that she couldn't fit her arms fully around his thick body. As he put his free arm around her shoulders, Gorgoth realised that he actually liked her. An odd thought, but the little Bosmer seemed to have skill in worming her way into people's affections whether they expected it or not.

"I will be leaving for Paradise soon," he told her. "Martin is setting up the ritual and will send for me when he is ready." She pulled back enough to meet his eyes, concern appearing in her expression. "I know I can defeat Camoran. I do not know if I _will_ defeat him. But I do not intend to fail."

The Wood Elf smiled in what she probably thought was a reassuring manner. "Course ya won't," she said. "You'll kick his golden arse into next week and waltz back with the Amulet in time for dinner. I know you'll do it, big guy."

Gorgoth thought of telling her that such blind confidence could so easily lead to disappointment, but Aerin was Aerin; he would not try to change her. Not any more. He stepped back from her and looked out beyond the wall. The snowfall seemed to be getting lighter. "I will do my best not to betray your confidence. But for now, I could use some time to think." She nodded and turned to leave, but stopped as he raised Trueshot. "Thank you for this. I will return it or die trying."

Aerin laughed. "Damn right, you'd better," she told him, raising a chiding finger. "It's a good bow, and I paid Rohssan good money for it." Winking at him, she waved and turned away, walking quickly back towards the Royal Wing. He held the shield and warming spell until she had reached the door, then let it dissipate and turned back to staring into the distance. Occasionally he fingered the bow in his hands, furiously pondering the question of how to get past the defences of a very powerful mage who was expecting him.

He still hadn't come up with a definitive answer when boots crunching in the snow announced the arrival of a Blade. "Gorgoth." The warrior-shaman turned to find Callia staring at him with an unreadable expression on her face, a change from the usual dislike that was so evident when she normally looked at him. "Martin is ready for you."

The warlord nodded slowly, taking one last look up at the clouds before turning towards the Great Hall. "Bards will sing about the battle we just fought, Callia, but this will be where we win or lose the war." He slung Trueshot over his shoulder and started walking. "Pray to whatever gods you follow. This will not be easy."

* * *

**A/N: I'm not sure if the next chapter will be short or long; it all depends on how long it takes to write the Paradise section, as I've got a fair bit happening while Gorgoth's in Paradise. Either way, keep in mind that your reviews can only help me; your helpful, honest reviews inspired me to get off my lazy arse and write, so keep that up and my motivation will increase correspondingly. That's not to say, however, that I'm demanding reviews to finish this, far from it; I'd finish BaS and write more fics if I got no reviews at all. But given what I've poured into this fic, it's hardly much to ask for a few minutes of your time to leave feedback and tell me if I did well or not. So keep up the reviewing. :)**


	51. The Darkest of Days

**A/N: It's been far too long since my last update, especially given how relatively short this chapter is, but writer's block can be a bugger to get over sometimes. I'll try not to make you wait as long for the next one. It's two weeks until Christmas Day, and as two weeks is the update time I normally demand of myself... well, here's hoping I can deliver you all a Christmas present this year. Anyhow, thanks to everyone who reviewed:**

**Skyrim Lord: Well, I wouldn't give BaS that lofty title, certainly... there are excellent Oblivion fics out there, after all. Just check my favourites list...**

**Rokibfd: Indeed not... there has to be limitations to Restoration, after all. Maybe a select few can have unparalleled skills at healing that can reattach lost limbs, but there'd only be a very few of them, and they'd have to act quickly... As for your speculation about Paradise, I'll give you a RAFO (Read And Find Out) ;)**

**Well, Gorgoth always was a slightly emotionally repressed block of steel, but it took a while for that to be revealed to the reader. But anyhow, yes, there are more deaths to come yet.**

**Underpaid Critic: I've never been bothered by the character limit recently... maybe it's because I have a profile. But anyhow, the Nerevarine is in Morrowind and he'll be staying there until the Crisis is over; I'd thought about having him in BaS, even as a cameo, but then decided that because he's Nerevarine and Hortator, he'd never leave his country in times of such peril; he's a war leader, after all, and he might just be trying to become more than that. Gorgoth is the only Hero we have right now, so it's got to be him going to Paradise.**

**Anyhow, I do try to insert details between dialogue like that, and it's worked in the past, but I found this time that there was a limit as to what I could put in and still make it realistic. When they're talking like that, it's hard to have them make the same gesture over and over again, and they wouldn't be walking around much. Either way, I hope it doesn't happen again...**

**Valences: I write too slowly for that to happen. ;) Anyhow, I do intend to write a novel at some point in the future, but that point is a long way off yet. Using name alternatives like that can get confusing, but it's the only real way to combat name repetition...still, I'll take a look at that.**

**Avik: A good beer is always welcome, but a trip to Bombay isn't going to be likely any time soon, sadly...**

**TehEpic: Yes, massive dialogues are needed at some points, though I don't like writing them, myself. But anyhow, yes, there'll be more deaths, that's for sure.**

**Random Reader: Indeed; everyone's ready to drop and sleep for a week, but they've got more battles to fight yet... they'll sleep when they're dead.**

**And now comes the time to cut short this behemoth of an Author's Note and plunge you into Paradise.**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-one: The Darkest of Days**

Martin realised that he was tapping his foot and forced himself to stop. Such a display of nerves and anticipation was unlikely to decrease the palpable tension in the Great Hall of Cloud Ruler Temple. The desks, benches and chairs had all been cleared to the corners of the room, leaving a large open space in the middle. In the centre of this gap were the four reagents needed for the ritual; Volendrung lay on the cold stones opposite a scraping of Tiber Septim's blood, while the Great Sigil Stone - sitting in a bed of sand to prevent it melting anything or rolling away – faced the contrasting light of the Great Welkynd Stone. On the table next to the Emperor was the Mysterium Xarxes, open to the page detailing the procedure of the ritual. Fortunately, it was a simple process, almost in mockery of the vast effort required to assemble the reagents.

Several Blades were present around the edges of the Hall, but most had wisely chosen to distance themselves from the ritual. Captain Renault had coincidentally returned from her rest to guard him just as he had entered the Great Hall, as though her blade or bow could protect him from the unknown paths they were about to tread. Lucius Varo was standing behind the ex-priest's other shoulder, ready to step in if Martin needed to take a break from maintaining the portal. All was quiet as they waited for Gorgoth to make his entrance.

They didn't have to wait long. The heavy doors swung open to admit the Hero of Kvatch and a swirl of snowflakes carried in on the gust of freezing wind. Letting the doors slowly bang shut behind him, the Orsimer looked around the room before shaking the snow out of his war braids and donning his helmet. "We are ready?" he asked.

Martin nodded, exhaling slowly in an attempt to calm his nerves. "Do you have everything that you need? Once you're through that portal, we don't know if you'll be able to return without killing Camoran. In fact, we don't even know that much..." He sighed. "You're going in blind, Gorgoth. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you more, but I have deciphered the entire Xarxes without finding any reference to what Paradise actually consists of."

The warrior-shaman nodded once as he slowly walked to the centre of the Hall, stopping short of the four reagents. "I have to retrieve the Amulet of Kings and get back here," he said. "A simple objective. It may be simple to accomplish. Speculation is useless, and time is precious. Start the ritual, my Emperor."

Moving to stand beside the warlord – noting with slight surprise that he had Trueshot slung over one shoulder – Martin turned to face the reagents, raising his arms and shaking back the sleeves of his robe. Looking around to check that everyone else was standing well back, the Imperial cleared his throat and started chanting the incantations for the ritual.

Instantly he felt the disturbingly familiar feeling of dark Daedric magic stirring within him, a feeling that threatened to bring forth unpleasant memories. He ruthlessly forced himself to focus; this was no time to be reminiscing about his time in the service of Sanguine. A glowing grey cloud started to emanate from his fingertips, spreading out to engulf the four reagents. He let his spell flow through the cloud and into each of them, feeling the blood of the Daedra and the Aedra, the power of Oblivion and the ancient elves. The Emperor forced the battling elements towards each other, forced them into the conflict that they naturally yearned for. A red glow appeared in the murky cloud, sparks of raw magicka fountaining into the air. A cracking sound rent the air as Martin's voice grew deeper, more urgent. The wood of the floorboards split as three obsidian spires thrust through the ground, curving upwards until their points stood firm ten feet in the air.

Most of the Blades were nervously shifting their feet and looking for the nearest exit, but Gorgoth stood unmoving by the ex-priest's side, not even flinching as the cloud grew darker, more solid, changing into a black sphere hovering between the three spires. Sweat was running down Martin's back from the exertion as he forced the opposing forces of creation even closer together, fuelling their battle with his own magic. Bright light started to shine through widening cracks in the globe and waves of heat washed over him as he entered the final stage of the ritual. Clenching his fists, he shouted the final words and involuntarily stepped back as the sphere appeared to warp, the battle of the opposing forces coming to its climax. As they released their final burst of energy before their mutual destruction, the last slivers of black disappeared and the globe seemed to shimmer, a light burning in the centre to rival the sun.

A consciousness slammed into the Emperor's mind, the sheer power of it staggering him despite being forewarned. He wrestled with it, forced it into submission before his mind was torn apart. "Go, Gorgoth!" he heard himself shouting, looking up to find the warrior-shaman leaping into the portal with Blood King in hand. As the Orc vanished, Martin felt the other consciousness start to fade. He grabbed hold of it and held it firmly, holding the portal open even as the terrible light faded. Sagging, he stared at the gently rotating orb hanging between the three spires, now no brighter than the fire in the hearth at the end of the Hall. "May the Divines protect you, Hero," he muttered.

Predictably, Renault was at his side within seconds, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and helping him stand upright. "I'm fine," he told her. "Lucius?" The battlemage walked swiftly over, shooting curious glances at the portal hanging before them. "The ritual itself took a lot out of me, but the actual maintenance of the portal requires only a trickle of magicka and some strength of will. I described it to you...?"

Lucius nodded. "You did, sire. You want me to take over?"

"Be ready." At the battlemage's nod, Martin let the consciousness of the portal slide from his mind. The physical portal appeared to flicker as Lucius seized control of it, a brief tightening of his mouth the only sign of the unfamiliar sensation. Renault was already helping the Emperor over to one of the armchairs.

"Are you _sure_ a bit of rest is all you need?" she asked, her eyes narrowing as he slumped into the chair, leaning his head against the back.

"No worse than a long period of translation. Give me a few hours of rest and I'll be fine." He felt almost as drained and exhausted as he had after the battle, but he couldn't afford to give in to weakness at this crucial point. The Emperor closed his eyes and resisted the temptation to rub them. "I'll be fine, Captain. Go about your duties." With that portal in the same room, she was unlikely to move more than six feet from him.

Letting his breath escape him in a long sigh, Martin started to pray. He might be tired, but at least he was on the right side of the portal. There was no telling what Gorgoth was facing in Paradise right now, but he would need all the divine help he could get whether he wanted it or not.

* * *

Gorgoth had guessed that the passage through the portal would be similar to passing through an Oblivion Gate; searing pain with the sensation of fire blazing in every part of his body. He hadn't expected to feel as though his very soul was being torn apart. The Orc floated weightlessly in a sea of blinding light, unable to move, unable to do anything except desperately hold on to his focus and attempt to push himself forward. After what seemed like an age, the pain stopped abruptly and he fell forward, his knees thumping onto solid soil. Crushing the urge to slump to the ground and rest, he forced himself to his feet and looked around, raising Blood King to deal with any attack.

No attack was forthcoming. The warrior-shaman slowly lowered his weapon, taking in his surroundings. There was none of the parched rock or rivers of lava that characterised the Deadlands; instead, for his own realm Camoran had created something more to his own liking. A lush forest of tall trees and colourful plants stretched as far as the warlord could see. The gently rolling hills were studded with fine examples of Ayleid architecture, the pristine white stone glistening in the sun. A light, cool breeze whispered through the leaves above his head, and through a gap in the canopy he could see a small cloud drifting lazily through the otherwise interrupted blue sky. A true paradise for those with an eye for nature, but Gorgoth was not here to admire the scenery; he was here to kill.

Under his feet was a narrow road of smooth white paving stones leading around the nearest hill and out of sight. He started following it, returning Blood King to his back and taking Trueshot from his shoulder, nocking an arrow to the string, looking out for any movement or life signature, his head constantly turning. It wasn't long before he heard a deep, disembodied voice resonating inside his head. "Most impressive. I had not thought any could survive the passage to my Paradise while I was blocking the way. But of course, the slave of the Septims is no ordinary mortal." The warrior-shaman did not pause in his advance or stop looking for danger as Camoran continued. "You knew, of course, that it would be impossible to take me unawares, here in the Paradise that I created. You are no fool, Hero; look now upon Gaiar Alata and see in it your grave."

The voice faded from his consciousness. Gorgoth offered no reply; Camoran might have heard his reply, but he did not intend to let the master of Paradise distract him. He walked past some colourful plants and stepped onto a white stone bridge stretching across a narrow river of deep blue water, waves gently lapping at the sandy shores. The land across the bridge was less flat, the hills taller and their sides steeper. "Behold the Savage Garden." The Altmer seemed to have appointed himself as the Orc's tour guide. "My loyal disciples here are tempered for a higher destiny; to rule over Tamriel Reborn."

As the warrior-shaman stepped off the bridge, distant screams started to reach his ears. It appeared that Camoran's 'tempering' might not have been what his disciples had expected when they had given themselves to him fully, body and soul. He walked onwards, his boots ringing on the paving stones. Movement flickered to his right, and he spun with the bowstring taut before he realised that it was just a deer bounding away from him. Relaxing the bowstring, he scanned the immediate vicinity before continuing on. Camoran made a taunting comment that he ignored.

A few more minutes of walking and a figure appeared on the road ahead. The warlord raised Trueshot again, but the rapidly-approaching Redguard hadn't even seen him; he was looking over his shoulder at something unseen, heedless of the blood running down his naked chest. He screamed as a daedroth lumbered out onto the road behind him, redoubling his efforts to escape as the crocodile-headed beast lurched after him. Gorgoth waited a few seconds before sending an arrow deep into the Daedra's chest, putting another alongside it to drop the mighty reptile onto the paving stones, crimson staining the pristine white.

The Redguard stumbled to a halt as he saw his attacker fall, pausing only for a moment before turning, preparing to run again until the warrior-shaman stepped forward and took his arm in a vice grip. "Who are you?" he growled. The half-naked man struggled for a few seconds before slumping in the Orc's grasp.

"I am Azir," he sighed. "I am... I was one of Camoran's followers, taken in by his promises of Paradise and immortal rule. But this..." He raised a hand to indicate the area around them. "We are hunted down by Daedra and killed in agony. We are reborn and hunted and killed again, and again, and again..." His voice trailed off.

"You were a fool to follow him," Gorgoth told him. "But now you can get your vengeance. Tell me where he is."

Azir stared at him blankly. "We can't kill him. You can't kill him. We're stuck here in this living hell for eternity. All of us." The Redguard's face crumpled, and he gritted his teeth. "There is no escape."

Gorgoth contemptuously shoved him away, quickly conjuring a shortsword and slicing it across the cultist's hamstrings. Collapsing to his knees, the Redguard's scream of agony was snuffed out by the warrior-shaman kicking him face first into the paving stones. "You are weak," he spat, feeling nothing but contempt for someone who had given up all will to live, who had accepted his dismal existence as normality. Letting the shortsword dissipate, he left the Redguard to his fate and moved on, nocking another arrow.

The road grew steeper, and as he crested a hill the Orc stopped, scanning the forest around him. Movement betrayed a few other mythic Dawn cultists, moving slowly through the grass with hunted expressions. Several corpses littered the ground in various stages of decay, one of which was being feasted on by a clannfear. As the warrior-shaman watched, the Daedra raised its head and hissed malevolently, setting off in pursuit of a cultist who had unwittingly made her presence known. Gorgoth turned away from the chase and looked at where the path seemed to lead. A short cliff seemed to rise out of the forest in the distance, and beyond that was a peak covered with what appeared to be a small Ayleid palace.

"Behold Carac Agaialor, from where I watch over Paradise," Camoran told him. "I shall await you there; then we will truly see who is the stronger; the champion of a crumbling dynasty or the herald of the New Age." The Orsimer ignored the voice inside his head as he descended the hill, always on the lookout for potential danger. Knowing the location of the battlefield changed little; he still had no clear strategy for how to defeat an opponent who was both magically stronger and had the clear advantage of being in a realm of his own creation. A wandering clannfear hissed and started to move towards him before he put an arrow through its skull.

"You are a fool," chided Camoran as the Orc continued on. "A fool who understands so little. You cannot stop Lord Dagon. The Principalities have sparkled as gems in the black reaches of Oblivion since the First Morning. Many are their names and the names of their masters: the Coldharbour of Molag Bal, Vaermina's Quagmire, the ten Moonshadows of Azura, and... and Dawn's Beauty, the Princedom of Lorkhan... misnamed Tamriel by deluded mortals." Gorgoth spared a glance up at Carac Agaialor, from where Camoran was presumably spouting his rhetoric. "Yes... Tamriel is just one more Daedric realm of Oblivion, long lost to its Prince, betrayed by those that served him. Lord Dagon comes not to invade; he comes to liberate the Occupied Lands, his birthright!"

"If you are this deluded, Camoran, you might be an easier fight than I thought," growled the warlord, finally deciding to respond. That the Altmer was deluded he had no doubt; Nirn was the realm of the Nine. The Orsimer had never worshipped the Nine, but he believed in their existence and respected their role in his world. He was more than the champion of the Septims and the people of Tamriel; he was the champion of the Nine themselves, sent into Paradise to do battle with the champion of their immortal enemies, the Daedra. Their choice might seem ironic, but Gorgoth did not question divine transcendence. He had his duty, and he meant to see it done.

The ruler of Gaiar Alata persisted. "Ask yourself, Hero! How is it that mighty gods die, yet the Daedra stand incorruptible, immortal? How is it..." Gorgoth pushed the voice away, muting it to an irritating buzz just out of earshot. He had no time for Camoran's delusions. The path was nearing its end at the foot of the cliff, leading into a deep crevasse in the rock. Keeping watch for sudden attacks, the Orc kept his arrow nocked as he approached the familiar figure standing just outside the fissure.

Kathutet had changed little since the warrior-shaman had last seen him; unsurprising, given that the Valkynaz claimed to be almost as old as the Daedric Lord he served. His smooth skin was dark red, and his red-flecked orange eyes regarded the approaching Orsimer with a calculating gaze. Long horns curved upwards from his head, adding eight inches to his already considerable height, and his thick dark grey hair fell to his pauldrons. The Dremora's plate armour had numerous Daedric runes and patterns inscribed on the durable plates, and several scars showed where the Valkynaz had seen hard combat over the millennia, the age of some of them giving credit to the Kynaz's claim that he hadn't been killed for thousands of years.

"I thought it would be you, Gorgoth," he intoned, inclining his head in greeting, his gravelly voice free of emotion. His right hand rested on the hilt of his enchanted longsword.

"I suspected I might find you here," replied the warlord, recalling the conversations he'd had with his other summoned Daedra. "Xilinkar claimed you were serving as a welcome mat." He replaced Trueshot on his shoulder as he stopped a few paces short of his comrade and enemy.

The Dremora grimaced. "He is accurate," he rasped, pursing his lips to spit onto the paving stones under his boots. "I am Master of the Savage Garden, as though by giving me a title Camoran thinks to make me feel important." His eyes flashed with hatred at the mention of the Altmer. "Ruling fellow exiles and pathetic once-mortals does not please me. Your appearance means this existence might soon be over for me."

"Do you intend to stand in my way?" asked the warrior-shaman, reaching behind him and placing a hand on Blood King's haft. He knew Kathutet's abilities well; if the Valkynaz chose to fight him, he might not even live to reach Camoran.

The Kynaz met Gorgoth's gaze and held it for a few seconds. "You are slightly more powerful than me magically. That is why I let you summon me. Martially, I always believed I would have the upper hand. But on this day, with that in your hand..." he nodded towards Blood King. "I am not confident I would be able to withstand you." The immortal warrior shook his head. "No, Gorgoth, I will not stop you in your quest. I have no allegiance to Camoran. But stop and talk for a moment. The minions of the Garden will not attack you here."

Hesitating only briefly, the warrior-shaman took one last look around before walking over to a nearby rock and leaning against it, looking towards the crevasse as Kathutet joined him. "Does that path lead to Camoran?"

"It leads to the Forbidden Grotto. Some of the once-mortals believe it holds their salvation. Instead, it holds tortures far worse than they would ever endure here." The Dremora's lip curled into a snarl. "Even these fools deserve better than this. They at least served their master faithfully in life; they should die rather than be forever held in this... _perversion_ of immortality."

"Why are you here? You did not come of your own accord."

The Valkynaz slowly drew his sword and held it up, watching the flames dance up and down the blade. "You know me, Gorgoth," he muttered. "I was among the greatest of the Valkyn, only a few steps down from Dagon himself. I ruled swathes of the Deadlands for him. Over the millennia, I have slain more mortals than any hundred of the Kyn. And now... how far I have fallen." He moved a gauntleted hand down the length of his sword, keeping his palm just above the reach of the flames.

"I have never questioned Dagon in the past. He is my Lord; I serve. But this invasion..." He grimaced. "Nirn is not Daedric, no matter what Camoran believes. It is, and always will be, the mortal plane, the Aedric plane. Dagon is the embodiment of Change and Destruction, and to most that would seem to be enough for him to do this. I do not pretend to know his motivations, but I know this; his invasion is flawed." The Kynaz turned to look at his companion. "Once the barriers are fully down, Dagon will sweep across Nirn, destroying and changing until there is nothing left. No mortal left alive; the entire world would resemble the Deadlands." He looked at his sword for a long moment. "If that is the result, then... what is the point? Would the Daedra fight each other for eternity, having no mortals to use for sport? What would befall us then?" The Dremora sighed and sheathed his sword. "It would be a defeat. Why destroy the mortal plane when we can use it for so much?"

Gorgoth slowly removed his helmet, blinking as the sunlight directly hit his eyes. He certainly hadn't thought much about Dagon's motivation, or what he had planned for Tamriel; he just wanted to stop him. But it would be pointless to dwell on what might happen should he fail; he would refuse to accept any possibility other than victory until his dying breath. "You told Dagon what you thought?"

Kathutet's smile was bitter. "Yes. I told him his invasion was ill-thought and doomed to failure even if he won. He did not take it well." He pushed himself away from the rock, glaring around him. "And now I am Camoran's lapdog, watching over his Garden for him. But I could not remain silent."

"You stayed true to your honour. I do not have to tell you that you did the right thing." The warrior-shaman put his helmet back on. "But I cannot lose direction. How do I get to Camoran?"

"The path leading through the Forbidden Grotto is the direct route. But by going in there, you will only trap yourself." The Dremora turned to look at the fissure. "Camoran's magics are strong in this place. He will know what we are saying, and he will know that I will not try to stop you. But you must kill him. My obligation to him will be released by his death, and I can return to the Deadlands. He will not be an easy fight; his son and daughter are with him. But he himself remains mortal. If anyone can kill him, it will be you."

"Is there any other path to Carac Agaialor?"

Kathutet's eyes rose from the crevasse to look at the craggy wall of the cliff face. "Camoran has denied you the use of levitation, and even you will not be able to jump far. But you can jump far enough to put a pair of sturdy shortswords to work; with your mastery of Destruction, you can carve into the rock. I'm sure a few fortification spells can make your arms strong enough to drag yourself up that cliff..." His voice trailed off and a hint of a knowing smile flickered across his face.

Gorgoth nodded once. "I doubt Camoran will be expecting that," he observed. "I have little time, but is there anything else you can tell me about his defences...?"

* * *

The earlier snowstorm had departed Cloud Ruler Temple, but now a far more dangerous storm threatened to envelop it. Aerin could feel the tension permeating the atmosphere as she joined at least thirty Blades in leaning on the outer parapet and gazing down at County Bruma. The snow-laden countryside was broken by the ominous red flickering of several Oblivion Gates. Battles between squads of soldiers and Daedra were visible from the Temple's walls. The archer's fists tightened on the cold stone walls as she counted the Gates she could see. There were five; more than the defenders of Bruma had ever dealt with at once before, and there would surely be more out of sight. And the soldiers were still decimated from the battle at the great Gate. General Phillida had left the fortress with his bodyguard half an hour ago, saying that he had to be closer to the front to manage the battle effectively.

"How long since Gorgoth went through the portal?" asked the Blade next to Aerin, a tall muscular Imperial called Marcus Corvus, addressing no one in particular.

"About an hour," replied Captain Varsis, pacing around behind the long line of his men. "But time might move differently in Paradise. He will be back soon."

"He'd better move quickly, or we'll be overrun soon," remarked Aerin. They knew the truth of her words; there would be too many Gates for the defenders of Bruma to contain all the Daedra.

Varsis snorted. "Even if they do overrun us, they'll climb over mounds of their own dead before my Temple falls," he growled, turning and marching away to check on the reinforcement of the front gates. The Captain of the Temple Garrison had ordered strengthening of the defences as soon as Phillida had left.

"I'd rather they didn't get that far," murmured the Wood Elf, conscious of the lack of her bow. There were bows in the armoury, of course, with several complementing her height and abilities, but none would ever match Trueshot. She was still frowning down at the nearest red glow when Ilend appeared beside her, moving her and Corvus apart slightly so he could stand between them.

"Looks like Dagon's finally found some strategic sense," grunted the Imperial as he shielded his eyes against the sun. "If he keeps flooding the area with Gates, we won't be able to resist him for much longer with the forces we've got." He looked down to meet his lover's gaze, his eyes full of determination. "But he'll fail. Gorgoth will see to that, and if he doesn't, well..." He smiled grimly. "We'll give him the fight of our bloody lives."

Aerin returned the smile and wrapped her arm around him, pressing her body against his, feeling her mood lift slightly despite the desperate struggle going on below them. She'd come to terms with the fact that her life seemed likely to end within a few days, and so was attempting to make the most of what little time she had left; proper mourning for Saliith could wait until more stable times. Her memory had been eased by the news that the Grand Champion's body was being taken back to the Imperial City by Agronak, who had left early in the morning with only a few of his gladiators as companions.

"I've been thinking," stated Corvus, his smooth voice breaking both of them out of their reveries. "If Dagon is throwing so much of his strength at us here, he'd have to halt his attack in other places, if he hasn't done so already." He turned to look at them and the Blades around him, a glimmer of hope sparkling in his brown eyes. "I doubt we've been forgotten; news of that battle will have spread. Help might still come."

Ilend pursed his lips before shaking his head. "I doubt it," he replied. "If Dagon has any sense at all, he's stopped attacking the regions furthest from us. In the unlikely event of the provinces sending us any help, it'll be too late, and he's still going to be attacking other parts of Cyrodiil." He rested his hand on his sword hilt. "No, we're alone. We've just got to hold on and hope."

Aerin was about to make a remark when movement on the road below caught her eye. Frowning, she leaned forward, peering over the parapet. "Oh, _crap_," she hissed, realising that what her sharp eyes had detected was a squad of Dremora rapidly climbing the hill towards the gates of Cloud Ruler Temple. She prepared to raise the alarm, but was pre-empted by Roliand's voice booming from the watch tower.

"_Daedra approaching! Stand ready!_" At the Nord's warning, every Blade lining the wall turned and dashed towards the courtyard, joining more spilling from the Great Hall and various buildings. Captain Varsis carved a path through the throng and pushed his way to the wall, looking around until Aerin pointed out the approaching forces to him.

"Get the Grandmaster. He's in the Great Hall," barked the Imperial before running off to marshal his garrison. Aerin nodded and immediately followed him, giving Ilend's hand a squeeze before he left her to join the Blades, who were quickly being separated into squads of archers and swordsmen by their Knight Captain. The Bosmer moved around them and threw open the doors to the Great Hall, pressing herself back against the wall to avoid being trampled by the man she had been sent to find. Grandmaster Steffan strode out into the courtyard to find half his Blades moving down the stairs to hold the gate, while the other half moved back onto the wall, taking bows off their backs. Knowing what duty she would prefer, Aerin ran off to the armoury to find a bow. She would be needing it.

* * *

Adamus Phillida briefly ran his hand over his face, closing his eyes and sighing. He'd suffered from lack of sleep on many campaigns, but he had been younger then. It was a concession to his age that he was operating mostly from the relative warmth of Castle Bruma rather than taking too many tours along the city wall. His sentries had good eyes and knew what to report; there was no need for him to peer over their shoulders too much. Instead, he'd accepted the Countess's hospitality and commandeered one of her smaller rooms to convert into a makeshift command centre. The clouds visible through the windows hid the sun, but he knew that it was midafternoon. And his forces were crumbling already.

"Cloud Ruler Temple reports that they just defeated a force of Daedra, but more have been seen," reported Vignar, swinging the door shut behind him to eliminate any draughts. The room was small with bare stone walls and a thin carpet, with no furniture other than the desk and chair that Phillida had requested; he might have escaped to the warmth of the castle, but he still refused anything other than the basic necessities.

"Any news from the chapel?" asked the General, staring down at his sparsely decorated desk. There wasn't much need for paperwork in his current situation, one of the few benefits.

"Most of the wounded are demanding to be placed back on active duty, but even they themselves know they won't be fit for action for at least a day." The Nord shook his head and leaned back against the wall next to the door. "At least the spirit is there. Every soldier within five miles is fighting his heart out."

"Or getting it ripped out," muttered the only other bodyguard in the room, the soldier that most had taken to calling Scarface. Phillida had overridden the protests of his entire personal guard and sent them out to fight alongside their comrades, keeping only a bare handful to protect himself. If the Daedra broke through to threaten him, then the battle had already been lost anyway.

The General shoved his chair back and stood, ignoring his knees and back protesting the fact that he hadn't taken his armour off for hours. "We have to abandon the south," he said. "Dagon is opening Gates far faster than we can close them. Before this day is out we'll have lost a thousand more men. We've got to focus on protecting Cloud Ruler Temple."

"And then we'll get a Siege Crawler knocking on the South Gate before tonight is out," responded Vignar, who often pointed out what he perceived as flaws in his general's plans, 'just to make sure you don't miss them'.

"It's a risk we have to take," sighed the Imperial, wondering what the Countess's reaction would be. "Bruma is a big obstacle, and if we can suppress every Gate in the north, we'll slow them down considerably. Time is what we need."

The head of his bodyguard nodded slowly. "I'll send messengers," he said, turning and opening the door, closing it carefully behind him as he left.

Phillida sat back down in his head, closing his eyes again, resisting the urge to groan. Scarface might be a relatively new bodyguard, but he had adopted the policy of over-protectiveness alarmingly quickly. The numbers written on the papers in front of him told him that he'd already lost nearly six hundred men dead to the Gates since dawn, with as many wounded and out of action. Without the battlemages working on the front lines, the casualty rates would be twice as bad, but the few healers left in the city were dropping from exhaustion. Civilians, pen-pushers, nobles and the like would look at the papers in front of him and thought they knew something of war just from the numbers. Often, they lived and died never knowing just how wrong they were.

The exhausted men under his command would not hold out much longer. No help seemed to be forthcoming from anywhere else; even the slow trickle of mercenaries into Bruma had stopped, presumably due to resistance on the road. The general found himself thinking of his retirement; he would have been out of the Legion before the end of next year. But now it seemed as if he would be dying as he had lived; with a sword in his hand on a battlefield carpeted with the bodies of the dead. All hope had left him; now only his duty remained. He would not live past the next sunrise, but at least he would die having done his duty.

"Do you believe in the Divines, Varius?" he asked, not turning around.

"My father was religious, general, and he raised me that way. After what I've seen, though..." The scarred legionary let the sentence trail off, the insinuation obvious to both of them. "Why do you ask?"

"Because now would be a good time to start praying."

* * *

Gorgoth straightened and let his summoned curved shortswords fade from existence as he looked around him, checking for danger. The two blades had made impressive hooks once he'd coated the edges with Destruction magic to enable them to cut through rock, and he doubted that Camoran had expected him to climb all the way over the cliff between him and Carac Agaialor. Finding no danger, he dispersed the fortification magic that had enabled his arms to drag his heavily-armoured bulk over the cliff. The grassy land here held only a few trees, and the ground sloped upwards, stone paths leading to the palace at the pinnacle of the highest hill in Paradise. Taking Blood King off his back and leaving his left hand free for casting, the warrior-shaman waited a few seconds for his magical reserves to start regenerating then started to walk towards his ultimate destination.

"This is my purpose," he muttered to no one in particular. He had given the matter some thought while climbing over the cliff, and the words of the Nerevarine's letter, along with some of Camoran's ramblings, had helped him realise his true purpose in life. He might be the champion of the Nine, but he was first and foremost a Hero of the Elder Scrolls. All of his life beforehand – his lost childhood, his brutal training by his father, all his battles, all his triumphs and tragedies – all of it had been nothing but training so he could make it to the event written by his prophecy. After all, without the Hero, there could be no event; in his battle with Camoran, he would fulfil his own prophecy and unbind his destiny, or die trying. And the rest of Tamriel would die with him. "This is why I exist, Camoran," he growled, stopping to stare up at the Ayleid palace. "I am here to kill you." The corners of his mouth quirked into a half-smile. "If my brother can kill living gods, then I can defeat you." He tightened his grip on Blood King's haft and continued on towards his destiny.

He reached the narrow archway to the centre of Carac Agaialor and immediately coated himself in a cocktail of defensive magics, one of which was an aggressive Dispel spell that would eliminate at least one magical attack before it even reached him. Looking around he saw no sign of life, but he was still cautious as he entered the roofless hallway. For all his talk of a climatic final battle, Camoran might still try an ambush at this late stage. There was no attack, however, and the hallway narrowed and came to a halt at a square door, shining in the light of Paradise's sun. After checking it for traps, the Orc pushed it open and ducked under the doorway.

In contrast to the rest of Paradise, the high-ceilinged long hall he was standing in was mostly dark, only the stone dais at the far end lit up by light pouring in from two openings in the white stone roof. Slender columns flanked the otherwise bare length of the chamber, drawing attention to the throne at the height of the dais, illuminated by the rays of the sun. With his children standing on either side of him, Mankar Camoran was sitting comfortably in his throne, looking almost relaxed. A smile crept over his face as Gorgoth appeared.

"I have waited a long time for you, Champion of Old Tamriel," he said, rising from his throne and spreading his arms. He was slender, and not tall for an Altmer, but he seemed regal in appearance, his greying hair carefully slicked back, his fine blue robe immaculate. The ruby of the Amulet of Kings sparkled in the sunlight, hanging around his neck, another reminder that this was Camoran's realm where he could change laws at will. He continued as his nemesis approached the dais. "You are the last gasp of a dying age. You breathe the stale air of false hope. You cannot stop Lord Dagon." A small, triumphant smile spread across the Altmer's face. Behind him, his children readied themselves for combat. Ruma took her staff from her back, and Raven summoned a claymore, stepping into a combat stance.

"I never put any faith into hope, Camoran," replied Gorgoth, stopping short of the dais. "Hope is too fickle, as are your delusions."

Camoran laughed, his rich voice echoing throughout the cavernous chamber. "How little you understand! The walls between our worlds are crumbling. Soon, Lord Dagon will walk Tamriel again. The world shall be remade. The new age will arise from the ashes of the old. My vision shall be realised. Weakness will be purged from the world, and mortal and immortal alike purified in the refiner's fire."

"Purification seems to be your term for unending pain and suffering." The warlord shook his head. "You are blind. Dagon will dispose of you the moment he has no need of you. If you are lucky, you will be spared what you are giving your followers. If not... you will be begging for something so merciful in the end."

The master of Paradise smirked. "As I thought. These things are beyond the comprehension of mortals... even Heroes." He raised his hands, both starting to glow with a purple light. "The time for talk has ended. The Emperor is dead. The Amulet of Kings is mine. And the last defender of the last ragged Septim stands before me, in the heart of my power." A cruel smile split Camoran's face. "Let us see who at last has proved the stronger!" His voice ended in a shout, and he raised his clenched fists.

"_Die!_" roared Gorgoth, thrusting his left hand towards his enemy. The dais erupted in fire, a single burning flame cracking the stones with its intensity. He could barely make out the life signatures of Ruma and Raven fading, but Camoran's stood strong. Fire flashed around the warrior-shaman, a reflection of his own spell, stopped only by his magical defences. He dropped his spell and leapt aside, teleporting to the left of the chamber just as the place where he had been standing exploded in a maelstrom of fire and steel. Camoran stood untouched on the crumbling dais, in front of his scorched throne, all humour gone from his eyes as he turned to meet the Orc's gaze.

Thousands of purple filaments burst from the Orsimer's palm, tendrils of Dispel magic homing in on his enemy, followed by several Silence spells; if he cut off the Altmer from his magic, he would be dead already. But Camoran not only had more magical power than his foe, he had centuries of experience; he created thousands of tiny magical shields, each absorbing a threat before fading from existence. At the same time, lighting crackled, hammering into the warrior-shaman's own magical shielding, sending him staggering back.

"I won in Tamriel, and I will win here!" Fireballs and icicles joined the bolts in the Altmer's offensive magical barrage, even as his shields kept Gorgoth's constant stream of dispelling magic at bay. "Your false Divines will not aid you here, as they did against my father!" The warlord gritted his teeth as his opponent started sending out his own streams of dispelling, along with a few green orbs that could only be Silence spells. He dropped his defences and teleported, already starting to swing as he appeared directly behind Camoran; magical shielding could only do so much against the raw fury of Blood King.

Presumably sensing the spell and guessing where his enemy would appear, the master of Paradise teleported away before the blow could connect, appearing in the centre of the chamber. He turned and dismissed Gorgoth's stream of fire with a flick of his wrist before making a pulling motion. The scorched stone of the dais leapt up and took shape, latching onto the warrior-shaman's limbs, attempting to drag him down. He shattered it with Destruction and rolled aside to avoid a flurry of fireballs, feeling the searing heat creep through his armour and start to burn his clothing. Jumping to his feet, he found his balance just in time to deflect an unexpected sword blow from Raven Camoran, who had reappeared from a side passage. Sending the Altmer's blade spinning with a counter-attack, the Orsimer finished him with a smash to the chest then dived to the side to avoid the inevitable barrage of offensive magic from the dying mer's father.

A frost spell caught him in its numbing grasp, and he only dispelled it just before the numbness spread to his heart. Camoran was now levitating several feet in the air, seemingly unruffled and fresh as he sent spell after spell at the flagging Orc. Gorgoth erected a multi-layered shield around him and grabbed a Welkynd Stone on his belt, barely feeling the restoration of his magical reserves before his shield had been reduced to nothing and he was forced to teleport again. Appearing behind a pillar, he cracked the stone in two places with Destruction and then used telekinesis to hurl the long chunk of rock towards Camoran. His enemy simply batted it right back at him without moving a muscle.

Magically throwing the broken pillar off to the side, Gorgoth teleported again, this time to just behind Ruma Camoran, who had just emerged from the same side passage her brother had used earlier. Slower on the uptake than her father, her broken body was thrown across the chamber as the warrior-shaman smashed his mace into the base of her spine. Abruptly, the ground beneath Gorgoth seemed to turn to clay, and he sank into it up to his knees, keeping him in place. Unsure whether it was Thaumaturgy or simply Camoran making the most of fighting within his own realm, the Orsimer was forced to once again teleport. This time he appeared above his enemy, diving down on the Altmer.

The master of Paradise stepped to one side to avoid the mace's swing and tapped Gorgoth on the shoulder before he could teleport. The warrior-shaman was thrown into the chamber's far wall with enough force to crack the stone, his breath forcefully expelled from his lungs with a sharp grunt as he dropped limply to the stone floor. He could barely force himself to roll aside, avoiding his enemy's Silence spell only by a tiny margin. As he staggered to his feet, Camoran floated down to stand before him, a small smile on his face.

"You have tested me more than most have," he admitted, folding his arms as Gorgoth regained his posture and healed his bruises. "I wonder... would you have ever considered joining us?"

The warrior-shaman's bitter, ironic smile was hidden behind his helmet, but he had the feeling that his opponent could sense his mood. "I never expected to save the world. Most of it would hate me if they truly knew me. I truly do not know why the Nine chose me to be their champion." He grunted and hefted Blood King. "But I will not question it. I have my duty. I will carry it out. To turn aside, to abandon my destiny... it would be weak and dishonourable."

Camoran chuckled. "Devout to Malacath to the end. But in the end, even your own Lord will have to watch from Ashpit as Lord Dagon reveals his true glory."

"Or he might emerge and show Dagon who is stronger on a neutral battlefield." The warrior-shaman snorted. "I will be truthful. If it were Malacath invading instead of Dagon, I would have joined him in a heartbeat long ago." He slowly shook his head, reaching for the Welkynd Stone on his belt. "But Malacath is not that stupid." The Welkynd Stone shattered, and his magical energies were once again restored. "But this conversation is pointless. We are here to fight. And one of us will die."

His enemy nodded and took a step back as the Orc covered himself with more defensive magics. "Then let us end it."

Dozens of steel blades appeared out of nowhere and struck at the Altmer, each breaking on his shield. Gorgoth charged forward, swinging both his mace and a summoned warhammer approximately equal in size to Blood King. Camoran grabbed the haft of both weapons in his hands and sent lightning coursing through his opponent. Gritting his teeth and forcing himself to concentrate through the agony, the warlord send Dispelling magic through both of them, swiftly followed by a Silence spell. His opponent gasped at the loss of his magicka and released the Orsimer's weapons, backpedalling. Gorgoth had also been Silenced by his own spell, but he had always been a warrior first and a shaman second.

His attacks missing by mere inches, the warrior-shaman stepped forward to swing again and finish it, only to find himself unable to lift his feet. Looking down, he saw that once again the stones had come alive and were holding him in place. Tantalisingly out of reach, Camoran was wearing a smug smile. "Forget not that this is my Paradise," he said as the stone started to creep up the Orc's ankles. Gorgoth threw the summoned warhammer and Blood King at his enemy, but he dodged them smoothly. Growling in frustration, the Orc clenched his fists and tried to free himself through brute force, waiting for his Silence spell to wear off; he hadn't set it to last for long, and his Orcish blood would make him more resistant to it than Camoran.

An attempt to wrench his feet free only succeeded in the living stone taking a greater hold. The master of Paradise stood a few feet away, a look of concentration on his face as he manipulated his realm, the stone sliding up Gorgoth's thighs. "Soon, Champion. Soon."

The warrior-shaman felt his magicka abruptly return to him and thrust out a hand, white-hot flame streaking from his palm and engulfing Camoran. At the same time, he disintegrated the stone and kicked free, using telekinesis to pull Blood King to him. The Altmer's life signature vanished. Letting the fires fade, Gorgoth looked at where the master of Paradise had been. There was nothing left. Not even ashes.

Understanding hit him just in time, and he teleported up to the dais just as half the chamber exploded in fire and lightning. Camoran, emerging from where he had teleported to, dispelled his invisibility, revealing a face that was no longer smiling. Burns covered his skin and his charred robes from where he had barely got his shield up in time. "Die!" he spat, sending an inferno rushing towards his enemy. A smell of burning flesh filled the air as the Orc's body was fried inside his armour. The Altmer clenched his fist, and the charred remnants of his foe exploded.

"_Father!_" Camoran barely had time to react as Raven threw himself at his father from behind, pushing him away from the explosion that tore half the dais apart. Raven screamed as his body caught fire, but Camoran had thrown up magical shielding around himself just in time. Pushing his son's writhing body aside, he turned to deflect another of Gorgoth's fireballs, staring angrily up at where the unharmed Orc was levitating.

"A very convincing Illusion," he snarled, absorbing several lightning bolts. "But there will be no more tricks. You will not defeat me in my own realm!" The Altmer targeted the roof, splitting it apart and sending the huge chunks of white rock towards his enemy. Feeling his magical reserves dwindling, Gorgoth moved out of the way instead of teleporting, dropping his defences to focus all he had on finishing Camoran. The master of Paradise had to have drained much of his magical reserves by now; the warrior-shaman had done enough to drain his own significant reserves twice over by now, yet the Altmer showed no signs of strain.

The rocks crashed into the floor, and the two enemies faced each other from across the destroyed, rubble-strewn chamber. Gorgoth refused to let himself feel despair; Camoran was stronger than him, more masterful with his magic, and his children would be back to help him as quickly as they could be reborn. If he had relied on hope, he might be close to giving up. But instead of hope, the warlord had only ever relied on his insatiable desire to live, to find power, to find glory in victory. Next to his simple, stubborn refusal to ever give up, hope alone would never be good enough. He took a step forward, raising his hand once again.

Filaments of dispelling magic sprang up all around Camoran, hammering at his defences, appearing too quickly and too close for him to eliminate all of them. As the Altmer's defences fell, he sent spells of Silence and paralysis towards his enemy, but the master of Paradise simply teleported away again, reappearing and sending yet more Destruction towards his opponent. Forced to put everything he had into his shields, the warrior-shaman could feel his strength quickly fading. Pushing forward through the maelstrom of fire, frost and lightning, he raised his mace, finding Camoran's life signature and battling towards it.

Suddenly, the torrent of offensive magic ceased. The warlord staggered forward, looking around for Camoran, who had teleported once again. Hearing something behind him, he spun just in time to block more Silence spells from the Altmer, who was standing mere feet from him. Bellowing a last defiant battle cry, Gorgoth charged forward and swung at Camoran just as his magical strength dwindled away.

The Altmer teleported a few feet to avoid the attack and blasted the warrior-shaman back into the wall with a strong wave of telekinesis. Before he could find his feet, the last remnants of the Orc's magical defences had been swept aside. He grunted as the Silence spell hit him, followed closely by a spell that drained all his remaining stamina. Barely able to think, the warlord dropped to his knees, forcing himself to meet Camoran's eyes. As the master of Paradise healed his burns, a triumphant smile spread across his face. His two children were picking their way across the debris to him, their sharp eyes watching their enemy's every move.

Placing both fists on the ground, Gorgoth made an effort to rise. He got as far as a crouch before Camoran hit him with another exhaustion spell. The Orc collapsed, defiantly attempting to keep his eyes open for a few more seconds. The sun of Paradise shone through the broken roof, penetrating the eye holes of his helmet. It would probably be the last thing he ever saw.

For the first time in his life, Gorgoth gro-Kharz had been decisively defeated.

* * *

**A/N: I wrote that last POV all in one sitting... I felt it could have been improved in places, but I'm just not sure how. Anyhow, I normally write spontaneously, but I've had that ending for Gorgoth v Camoran II in mind ever since the early chapters. There were two moments in that fight when I wanted to end it with the death of one or the other, but this works best, in my mind. And, of course, it means you'll be waiting a while to see exactly what's going to happen next. ;)**

**Anyhow, be sure to let me know what you think by reviewing. Without reviews, I can't improve, and... it'd be good to hear your thoughts. The endgame is fast approaching, after all.**


	52. A Glimmer of Light

**A/N: Yes... not much of a Christmas present, was it... I can't even pass it off as a late one, given that we're halfway through January. I can only apologise for the lateness of this update, and I do feel that some of it is of shoddy quality, but the writer's block struck hard. But at least it's here, and I'll do my best to get the next one out as quickly as possible, particularly as we're nearing the end now...**

**Guest: Many thanks.**

**TehEpic: I think they're naked, yes, but being Camoran's children, they probably have designated 'respawning points' where they have access to clothing... and Raven summons his armour and weapons anyway. Raven pushed Camoran out of the way because he was quick; he spotted Gorgoth moving and aiming a fireball and so dived in. And as for your second review (yes, you reviewed twice ;)) it might well be possible for Gorgoth to tickle someone to death... though it would depend what he used. ;)**

**Rokibfd: Well, I always assumed he was holding it open ingame; I'm not entirely sure of the workings of the entire ritual, so I fabricated most of it, but it makes sense that Gorgoth would need a potential escape route. Anyhow, it makes sense that fighting would still be happening during Paradise, so I added that in... Dagon is a persistent bugger. As for Camoran trying to turn Gorgoth... read on. ;)**

**Guest (Cyrus?): I feel honoured, but there are better fics out there, for sure.**

**Underpaid Critic: If I left a cliffhanger, it was unintentional; I dislike them and tend not to use them; I didn't even know that was their main use... no, I follow the mantra of 'A chapter ends when it ends', and in this case it happened to end when Gorgoth's POV did; no sense in adding anything else afterwards. Anyhow, it's not easy to defeat Gorgoth; he is, after all, a Hero, a Hero with Divine backing. But he's still mortal...**

**Anyhow, thanks to everyone who reviewed; keep that up, as your reviews will be valued right to the end (and after the end, naturally). Now, read on.**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-two: A Glimmer of Light**

Night had fallen over Cloud Ruler Temple, but even after a full day's fighting, even the most fatigued Blade had to be given a direct order by a superior to go to the barracks and snatch a few hour's sleep. Those that eventually did lie down often found it hard to rest, knowing that the stars were hidden beneath Oblivion's red-and-black veil, and the incessant burning of multiple Gates lit up the craggy terrain for miles. No enemy had ever stormed Cloud Ruler Temple, and the Daedra had yet to breach the fortified gates, but despite the multitude of rotten corpses scattered over the hillside, they kept coming. As soon as the defenders dealt with one squad, another would appear within the hour. Arrows would not be running short for some time – the fortress was well-supplied for any siege – but there were less than seventy defenders to hold it, and there was only so much exhaustion that even elite warriors could take.

Aerin sat slumped against the wall of one of the watch towers, staring into the brazier, absently stroking the wood of the short bow in her lap. She'd lost track of time, and of how many Daedra she'd sent back to Oblivion. The last few hours seemed to meld together, each minute indistinguishable from the next. She recalled standing shoulder to shoulder with Blades archers, sending volleys into the mass of Daedra before picking targets to support the sortie of swordsmen charging from the gates. Occasionally, Martin or Lucius Varo had joined them, sending offensive magic to scythe through the enemy ranks, cutting down half the squad before they got into range. Mostly, however, they restricted themselves to healing mortal wounds and saving their strength for the overwhelming attack that was likely to come soon.

The archer blinked and looked up as heavy footsteps announced the arrival of a visitor. An unarmoured Roliand stepped into the doorway, grinning down at her despite the fact that the left side of his face was covered in bandages, concealing the fact that his left eye had been cut in half by a Dremora's sword. He'd also lost the last two fingers of his left hand, but simply claimed that they'd never been very useful anyway. "More darts for you, little one," he said, patting her head as he dropped two full quivers on the floor in front of her. The bulky Nord had been relieved from duty by the Grandmaster – the two mages were only healing potentially fatal wounds – but he had taken on the responsibility of keeping the archers supplied.

Managing to summon a smile in response, the Bosmer emptied the remaining arrows from her own quivers and handed the empty containers over, dragging the new ones towards her. "Thanks," she told him as he dropped ten more quivers near the brazier to supply the other archers huddled within the watch tower. Sliding her remaining arrows into the new quivers, she attached them to her belt before settling back against the wall, shifting slightly in a futile attempt to get comfortable. "Roliand?" The big Nord paused as he prepared to duck out into the still night air "How's Ilend?"

He chuckled. "Took part in every single sortie until the Grandmaster ordered him to rest. Last time I saw him, he was snoring so loudly half the barracks had moved." The Knight Brother patted her shoulder with his good hand. "You stop worrying about him and look out for yourself, you hear?" He walked out of the watch tower, burdened with a mixture of empty and full quivers.

Aerin closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the stone, attempting to find some peace. But even at the top of the mountain, the sounds of fighting in the valley reached her ears; the roaring of Daedra, the clash of steel on steel, and the screams of the wounded mortals. Sooner or later, there would be an attack force numbering in the hundreds rather than in the dozens. Cloud Ruler Temple was almost impenetrable - a Siege Crawler would find it impossible to ascend the mountain – but seventy tired defenders could not hold out forever against the endless hordes of Oblivion. One of her fellow archers crammed into the small watch tower was mumbling something under his breath. It took the Wood Elf a few seconds to deduce that he was praying.

The sentry – the only person in the tower who was actually standing up – leaned forward, peering down into the valley. "Another Gate just opened," he grunted. "That's six that I can see now. There'll be-" he cut off, staring intently down at something. "_Open the gates!_" he bellowed, his voice startling at least one archer out of their sleep. There was a pause, then a few nearby Blades ran over to operate the giant pulleys that controlled the gates. Aerin struggled to her feet and carefully made her way over to the sentry, careful to avoid treading on any toes.

"What is it?" she asked, peering out into the snow-covered landscape and trying to make out any threat.

"There," said the sentry, pointing. The Bosmer blinked, then finally saw what he'd seen. A man was bent over the neck of his lathered horse, urging it onwards up the final stretch towards the Temple, pursued by at least twenty Daedra. "He's one of ours, I'll bet." growled the sentry, taking a step back. "Archers ready! Swordsmen prepare for sortie!"

With his voice still ringing in her ears, Aerin scrambled out of the tower, lining up along the battlements with the other archers. The gates were creaking open, swordsmen already spilling out of the gap, led by Captain Varsis. Nocking an arrow to her bow, the Wood Elf waited for the Daedra to come into range, the horseman looking back over his shoulder to watch his pursuers. A snap of bowstrings filled the air as those with longer bows took shots at the limit of their range. Aerin drew fletchings to cheek, carefully picked her target, and loosed. Her target - a clannfear – went down with satisfying rapidity, as did half the Daedric force as other arrows found their targets.

The horseman slowed and reined in to a walk as the swordsmen parted to let him through before falling on the enemy. Outnumbered and already wounded by the archers, the Daedra were swiftly dispatched. As they started retreating through the gates, Aerin slung her bow onto her back and started walking around to the courtyard, curious as to who the newcomer was. A small knot of Blades had already gathered around him as he slid off his exhausted horse, patting it as steam rose from its heaving flanks.

The man himself was short and stocky for an Imperial, and older than Aerin had thought; most of his head was bald, with a few tufts of thick grey hair around the side. He looked as though he knew how to move efficiently in his plain, unadorned chainmail, however, and the heavy broadsword at his belt looked worn from heavy usage. As the Wood Elf walked up, he was telling the men who were taking his horse to care for the tired beast properly. His voice was nondescript, as was his face; he could have been any old Imperial whose advancing years were evident.

"He doesn't look like much, does he?" The Bosmer turned to find Callia Petit standing beside her, the Breton's thumbs tucked into her sword belt as she studied the newcomer. "But that's the entire point. You'd never think him to be much, when in fact..." The Knight Sister shot a sidelong smile at Aerin. "That's Knight Captain Caius Cosades, Spymaster of the Blades. I've only met him once, but he's good at what he does. No doubt Captain Renault will be pleased when he relieves her of taking care of the lighter spy-work. I hear he'd been operating from High Rock until he was recalled."

"No, I didn't bring an army with me, and no, I didn't see one on the way here," Cosades was saying to the Blades around him. "Mostly, I was trying to work my way down through Skyrim and the Jeralls with an intact skin. Now go back to heroically killing hordes of Daedra and let me report to the Grandmaster." He pushed through the throng and entered the Great Hall.

"Charming bloke," commented Aerin, leaning on her bow. "Too bad he didn't have an army in his pocket. How much longer do ya think we'll hold out?"

Callia shrugged, pushing her helmet up to scratch at her hairline. "To hear Glenroy go on about it, we can repulse anything that comes up those stairs. Realistically, though..." The Breton sighed. "Let's just hope Gorgoth gets back soon." She grimaced. "Never thought I'd hear myself say that."

"He ain't all that bad, ya know," replied Aerin, turning to look at the Knight Sister. "What did he do to ya, anyway? I can't remember you or him ever telling me."

The Blade looked around them, suddenly adopting a guarded expression as she drew both of them back to lean against the wall of the East Barracks. "You'd remember if I ever told you," she muttered. Her fist seemed to clench involuntarily around the hilt of her katana. "He led an attack on my village six years ago. He and his Orcish raiders burnt half of it to the ground, killing anyone who resisted and raping almost every woman there. Gorgoth himself appeared in my father's house and..." She closed her eyes and shook her head. "He beat my father senseless and pushed me under the bed, where he raped my mother to death."

Aerin grunted, staring sightlessly into the middle distance. She'd known, of course, that Gorgoth was brutal, uncompromising and hard almost beyond belief, but... "Why?" she blurted. "Why would he do that?"

The Breton made a chopping motion with one hand, her lips tight with repressed anger. "He claims the raids were ordered by his father, and that he disagreed with them. As if that makes any difference. He robbed me of both parents; my father was never the same after that, and neither was the village. He spared me, and I'll admit in doing so that he probably saved my life, but I'll never forget how he claimed my mother as his 'spoil of war'." A sigh hissed through her clenched teeth. "But despite all that... having met him, fought alongside him... I can't help but respect him somewhat."

"He certainly inspires respect," mumbled Aerin, managing to digest what Callia was saying. Every time she thought she finally had an understanding of Gorgoth, another layer peeled off. It made sense, however; she'd recalled times when he'd talked about spoils of war and the rights of the victors. To him, freedom to do what he liked to those he'd defeated was probably a fact of life. It was yet another reminder of how different they were. "So now I know why you hate him." It was stating the obvious, but she couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Yes. I hate him and I intend to kill him. Not just to avenge my mother and my village." The Breton folded her arms, staring down at her feet. "I left my village less than a year after my mother died. I learnt how to fight, to use a sword. I was a mercenary for a while, fighting for the Fighters Guild. The Blades recruited me two years ago. And through all that, what drove me was the thought of finally silencing my inner torment." She turned to look Aerin, her eyes hard but seeming almost desperate. "I have to kill him, not just for my family, but for myself. Until I do, my life will be without peace. But..."

"That's not going to be easy," pointed out the Wood Elf, somewhat unsteadily. She wasn't sure what to think of someone being so vehement about killing someone she knew and even trusted, despite his history. The words seemed even stranger when they came from the mouth of a Breton only a few inches taller and a few years older than Aerin herself.

Callia shook her head. "No, it won't. I have already sworn not to kill him until the Emperor is crowned and the Oblivion Crisis is over. Until the war is over, there are few in the world who will protect him as fiercely as I will." She snorted. "It's ironic that one who hates him so much can be trusted to watch his back and fight alongside him no matter how hard the battle becomes. And he knows it." Her hand started to unconsciously stroke the hilt of her katana. "But no, he will not be an easy fight. I won't lie to myself; the moment I challenge him, I will seal my own death."

The Bosmer shifted uneasily, not wholly comfortable with discussing the death of the Hero of Kvatch. "I guess you'd have to try while he's weak, or..."

"No!" The vehemence in Callia's voice contrasted with the sickly pale tinge that her skin was starting to take. "He has his honour, and I have mine. We are very different, but we do agree on some things; to challenge him when he's weak, or to sneak in to try and cut his throat while he's sleeping..." She shuddered for some reason. "No, I will not do that. I have to challenge him when he is fully able to meet my challenge, though I do not see how he will fail to kill me." The Breton sighed and ran a shivering hand over her face, closing her eyes. "I don't want to die, Aerin. I'm only twenty-three. I have things I want to do after this shadow is lifted. But this shadow won't be lifted until I kill Gorgoth, but I can't kill him. He'll gut me within two minutes." She clutched the sides of her head, emitting a low groan. "This shadow is eating away at me, day and night, and I can't stop it. I have to kill Gorgoth, but I don't want to die. I can't..." Her voice trailed off into an unintelligible moan.

Aerin had no idea what to say. What _could_ she say to a woman who faced such an impossible choice? She looked around to try to find something to change the subject, but nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, and she doubted that changing the topic of conversation would do much good anyway. After a few agonising minutes, a thought finally came to her. "Have ya... ever considered forgiving him?" She bit her lip as the Knight Sister's head jerked up, her eyes flashing open.

Callia frowned for a few seconds before directing a sideways glare at her companion. "Could you?" she asked icily.

The Bosmer grunted. She hadn't thought of it like that. Trying to put herself in Callia's shoes, however, was impossible; she couldn't personally comprehend what the Breton had gone through. "I don't know," she said, shaking her head.

"I know I can't. At least, I don't think I can. There's still so little I know about him..." The Blade shook her head angrily. "But I know enough. He has to die. But..." A bitter smirk crept across her face. "It's ironic. I want him to return soon, in full health with the Amulet of Kings in his hand. I want that at least as much as anyone in this fortress. My trust in him is absolute, and it'll stay that way until..." Her features hardened. "Well, I'll know when."

Aerin was spared the dilemma of having to think up another reply when one of the sentries raised the alarm. Both of them immediately stepped away from the wall; Callia drew her katana and the Wood Elf took her bow from her back. "At least in battle, I don't dwell on my shadows," muttered Callia. "Come on. Time to do our jobs. Let's hope Gorgoth can do his."

* * *

Adamus Phillida jerked in his chair as a hand fell on his shoulder, half-drawing his dagger and looking frantically around before realising that he was still in his commandeered office in Castle Bruma. He hadn't realised he'd been dozing off; there was a nasty ache in his neck. Working his shoulder, he stood and turned to look at Vignar, who had backed away after waking his superior. "You shouldn't have let me sleep."

The centurion snorted. "I should have had Scarface strip you and carry you to bed instead of waking you. You need your sleep." Primo Varius was still standing in one corner of the room, staring out of the window. "But this news is urgent," continued Vignar. The general motioned for him to elaborate. "We've only got about a hundred and fifty Orcish horsemer left, and only half of those still have horses. But they're still doing a good job. Better than those lightly-armed Dunmer, at least." Most of the Dunmeri cavalry had been wiped out in the battle, and most of the remainder of the unit were still in the chapel for healing or manning the walls; unlike the Orcs, they didn't make good infantry when dismounted.

"You didn't wake me up to tell me that," pointed out Phillida, resisting the urge to sink back into his chair. Instead, he walked over to the window, rubbing his tired eyes. Every fibre of his aching body told him to find a bed, but the red glow lighting up the night sky reminded him of his duty.

"No, I didn't. You recall we had the Dunmeri remnants patrolling to the south to give us early warning?" The Imperial nodded impatiently. "One was found by an Orcish patrol, trying to drag himself to the city with three Daedric arrows in him. Sadri, their leader. They managed to get him to the South Gate. I was there when they brought him in; we tried to get him to you, but he died of his wounds. He said only three words, but..." The Nord shook his head. "They were said with the kind of intensity that you only get when a dying man is desperate to pass on something of vital importance before he dies. He was looking me in the eyes when he said it just before dying, and I never saw crimson eyes so bright."

"What did he say?"

"'They are coming'. Nothing else. He died before I could get him to elaborate. None of the Orcs who brought him in spoke much Cyrodilic, so they didn't get anything else either."

The general slowly leaned on the windowsill, forcing his tired mind to think. "'They?' Could he mean that the Daedra have a Siege Crawler further south and are bringing it up here to attack us? Or maybe that they just have an army of Dremora, which is almost as bad?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, sir." Their eyes met; through their long years of working together, they had learnt how the other worked, and there were times that it seemed like they could read each others minds. "It'll take about half an hour to muster everyone we can spare on the south wall."

Phillida nodded, forcing himself to straighten. "Spread the word. Every man and woman trained to bear arms not already assigned to other duties is to assemble at designated points on and near the South Gate." He reached over his shoulder and loosened his claymore in its scabbard. "If this is our end, then we'll meet it with steel and courage."

* * *

Mazoga paced angrily back and forth across the chambers shared by her and Gorgoth, trying not to listen to the sounds of battle below. She'd donned her battered ebony plate and belted on her longsword, but she refused to take part in the battle no matter how much she boiled inside. Her word to Gorgoth would have held her firm even if the life inside her hadn't; she would only draw her sword when the Daedra were knocking down her door. When the Blades had tried to invite her to the battle, she'd been forced to tell them of her condition; the news was likely all over the fortress by now, but she couldn't care less. Her mind was focused solely on the fact that it had been over ten hours since her lover had entered Paradise.

The Orc knew that the warrior-shaman was a fearsome warrior and a deadly sorcerer; she more than most knew what he was capable of. Since she had first met him several years ago, he had only come truly close to death once, when he had been surprised by Azani Blackheart. But, despite her confidence in him, she was worried. She'd tried to reassure herself that Paradise was probably large, Camoran had been hard to find, and that it would be a hard fight, but she knew that going ten hours without hearing anything was troubling news. The Orsimer had even considered praying to Malacath, but in her experience demanding help from the Daedric Prince could backfire all too easily. So all she could do was wait uselessly as the Blades fought and died before their gates.

She realised that she had started counting the number of paces from wall to wall and forced herself to sit down at the table. Old habits made sure she had a good view of the door to the hall. Pulling off her gauntlets, the warrior started idly tapping the table, trying to force her thoughts to other subjects, but the portal to Paradise kept looming in her mind's eye. Growling in frustration, she snatched up a note that was on the table, noticing that it was the Nerevarine's note to Gorgoth and deciding to read it anyway. If he hadn't wanted it read by anyone else, he'd have destroyed it. The paper itself was thick and of good quality, contrasting somewhat with the spiky handwriting. A sigil in grey wax was next to the signature.

_Gorgoth,_

_I hope this letter reaches you. The hundred horsemer I sent along with it might be useful to you, or they might not be, but I trust them to at least get this to you. I would have come myself – no doubt the trials at the centre of the battle are greater than at the fringes – but I am Nerevarine and Hortator, and I can't abandon my people while thousands of Daedra rampage across my land._

_You might be wondering why I'm writing to you, but if I know you as well as I think I do, you'll have guessed why. News of the exploits of the Hero of Kvatch have travelled far and wide; when it reached my ear that his name was Gorgoth gro-Kharz, I instantly thought of that Orcish mercenary I met in that tavern in Orsinium last year. Given that it was only one of three times I was out of Morrowind that year, I don't believe it was coincidence; we were fated to meet at some point._

_While you're reading this, you'll probably recall what we both felt; a sense of inexplicable kinship and brotherhood between an Orc and a Dunmer. Even now, I can still recall that sense of... sameness that I felt between us. I just knew you were destined for great things and great deeds, and I recall telling you as much. You didn't know I was the Nerevarine then, of course, and I could understand your scepticism at the time, but...well, I think you'll have come to different realisations now._

_Yes, we are both Heroes of the Elder Scrolls, our fates written in their prophecies. My Event was, of course, defeating Dagoth Ur and ending the Blight. I am unsure what yours will be, though obviously I know little of how the war is going at your end. I don't have to tell you that if you fail, the world is doomed, as surely as it would have been if Dagoth Ur had defeated me and completed Akhulakhan. But you knew that already; what I feel I must tell you is that if you win, your destiny will be truly unbound. Prior to the Event, we are simply slaves to our prophecies, our presence required for the event. But afterwards... I feel there is no limit to what a Hero can achieve._

_Time grows short, so I must be brief; Vivec is growing exhausted, so sole leadership of our armies on Vvardenfell falls to me now. I can trust Helseth to hold the mainland, though he'll probably try to have me assassinated again once this is all over. But first... I never had a family, and I barely know you, but I feel like I've gained a brother recently. That sense of kinship felt between Heroes cannot be denied._

_I know you have your own battles to face, but know this; I am a powerful warrior, and my magical prowess is also impressive, yet Dagoth Ur was stronger than me. I am still unsure how I managed to hold him off long enough. Almalexia, too, almost overpowered me, but I defeated her as well. I am one of the strongest spellswords in Morrowind, yet I doubt I could have done it without some kind of divine intervention; I was Azura's champion, after all. Remember this; even if your enemies seem insurmountable, you are a Hero and a champion; fight your hardest, and you will find that your hardest is good enough. I did, and I have faith in you, my brother._

_I've distracted you long enough. Six years ago, the fate of the world rested on my shoulders; today, you are at the heart of an even bigger battle. For what it's worth, Gorgoth, you have my full support, and after all this is over... we will both forge our own destinies, but I'd like to meet you again. But first you have to save the world. Fulfil your prophecies, and your life will be yours to live. Good luck, and may you find glory in battle._

_Your brother,_

_Dalvyn Voris_

_Nerevarine and Hortator_

Mazoga slowly let the letter fall back to the table, staring at it. She had little idea what a Hero was, and had only heard of the Elder Scrolls a few times, never being interested in such things. Shaking her head, the Orc tried to ignore it; Gorgoth was a mighty warrior, a Lord of Orsinium, and her lover; that was all she wanted from him and all she cared about. Even so, she tried to recall the meeting described in the letter; she vaguely remembered Gorgoth talking to a Dark Elf for a few hours somewhere in Orsinium, but the recollection was hazy and the details eluded her. The Nerevarine knowing her lover was new to her, however; Gorgoth had certainly never mentioned meeting the legendary war hero of the Dunmer.

Folding the letter up and pushing it away, the Orsimer stood and started to pace again, realising that nothing had changed; she was still consumed with worry about the fate of her comrade. Reading the Nerevarine's note had just given her a few questions to ask him when he returned. She still refused to contemplate the chance of him not returning. He was the greatest warrior she had ever known, and the most powerful shaman she had ever met; he would win. She was sure of it. But she did wish he would hurry up about it.

* * *

The line between consciousness and unconsciousness had become blurred. In the total darkness of the cavern, only the constant pain let Gorgoth know he was still awake. The children of Camoran had closed the opening in the rock wall behind them and snuffed out the magical light hours ago. At least, he thought it was hours; it seemed like hours. He'd had plenty of time to be alone with his thoughts.

He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious after his defeat, but he had been awoken by lightning sent coursing through his body by Ruma Camoran. They'd stripped him of his armour, weapons and clothing and chained him to the rocky ceiling using bonds strong enough to hold an avatar of Malacath. The steel cuffs around his wrists were serrated, and occasionally blood would trickle down his thick arms past his dislocated shoulders. His feet swung about six inches from the ground, and he refused to humiliate himself by attempting to stand on his toes to relieve some of the pain that the weight of his own muscular body was causing.

The Orc didn't know what plans Camoran had for him, but he hadn't seen the master of Paradise since his defeat. His children, however, had been eager to show how much they hated him. It was clear that neither had much experience with torture, but they nonetheless knew how to cause pain. Ruma had set to work with magical torturing spells that made him feel like he was being ripped apart internally, while Raven had set to work with a knife, peeling his tough skin from his body in strips and rubbing salt into the naked flesh. Gorgoth had merely clenched his teeth and remained silent, save for a few times when he had taunted them on how ineffective they were. But then, he doubted they were actually trying to get any information from him. He had felt worse pain in the past, but not by much.

And then they had decided to let a daedroth loose on him, only realising their mistake when the beast had torn open half his throat. They had frantically banished it and healed his gaping wound, but not before he had passed out from the loss of blood. He hadn't seen them since. The pain was constant – Raven had also taken the time to smash his kneecaps with a hammer – but he had learnt years ago how to deal with physical pain. Instead, he was thinking over his defeat. Despite himself, he felt shamed by his defeat, though if he thought logically there should have been no shame in it. He had been fighting a vastly superior magical opponent in a world that could be shaped by his will, with the aid of two allies. And Gorgoth had almost won. Another man or mer might have felt pride at coming so close and doing so well; the warrior-shaman felt only the bitterness of defeat. He had failed.

Giving up, however, was not something he knew how to do. He had seen enough of the chains to know that they wouldn't break without magical interference, and his Silence spell was probably being maintained by Camoran himself. His rocky cell was bare and featureless, and in the total darkness he couldn't have made use of anything anyway. But his mind kept working, trying to think up possibilities. It was highly unlikely he would ever escape, but Gorgoth gro-Kharz would only rest when he was dead. Which was likely to be very soon.

Perhaps Camoran would try to turn him. It would be impossible, even with the most horrible of torture – he had sworn an oath, and he would rather kill himself after torturing Mazoga to death than break his word – but it gave him some potential options. However, it was doubtful that Camoran would ever trust him enough to release him until he'd sworn his soul to Dagon. No matter how much he thought, the warlord could find no way out of his present situation. He wasted no time on thinking how he had let the entire world down; self-pity and self-hate were weaknesses he held in utter contempt.

A rumbling sound interrupted his thoughts as the rock door slid down into an alcove. Gorgoth refused to squint to protect his eyes against the dim light now entering the room via a globe of light floating through the doorway, moving up to hover six feet above the Orc's head. He was not entirely surprised to see Kathutet enter the small chamber alone, but neither had he particularly been expecting his comrade and enemy.

"It pains me to see this," muttered the Valkynaz, moving around the warrior-shaman's body and peering critically at the bloody skin hanging off his back. "I should have known Camoran would be too strong. I know how powerful Dagon is in the Deadlands; I should have known that Camoran would be able to perform similar miracles here." The Dremora shook his head, moving back to Gorgoth's front and looking the Orc up and down. "Camoran knows everything that goes on in this realm. My merely talking to you will not keep his attention, nor even healing you, but if I help you get back to Carac Agaialor..." His voice trailed off. They both knew that Camoran's retaliation would most likely kill Gorgoth and banish Kathutet back to the Deadlands.

"Why are you here?" asked Gorgoth. The Kynaz had never been one to arrogantly mock a fallen foe, and he wasn't even sure if the Dremora had classified him as an enemy.

Instead of answering, Kathutet started pacing from wall to wall, forced to turn every four steps due to the small size of the rocky cell. "I did some thinking after you left," he finally said. "We are enemies, of course. We always will be for as long as this war lasts. Helping you would go against everything I stood for, or so I thought. But then I realised something..." He turned to face the Orc. "I swore to Dagon so long ago that it takes me a while to remember the exact words, but I remembered eventually; I swore to serve him, not to obey him."

The Orsimer grunted. "You're walking on eggshells if you're going to twist words of your oath."

Kathutet laughed shortly, bitterly. "This war is madness. What will happen if Dagon succeeds, if he kills every mortal in Tamriel? It is not a future any of us want, but he refuses to see it. I am utterly loyal to Dagon, and I will always serve him to the best of my ability, true to my oath... which is why I feel I _must_ do this." The Valkynaz raised a hand, his palm glowing red. The steel cuffs around Gorgoth's hands disintegrated, freeing him and dropping him to the floor. He barely suppressed a pained grunt as he crumpled to the ground, the pain from his shattered knees agonising. Within seconds, the Dremora had laid hands on his old comrade, sending powerful Restoration magic through his body. He always had been a good healer, his skill surpassing Gorgoth's; even the Orc's shoulders were popping back into place. The warrior-shaman rose to his feet, still covered in blood, but the agony was already a fading memory.

He looked the Kynaz in the eye. "Can even the two of us together defeat Camoran and his children?"

"Probably not. But we have to try; I, to serve my lord, and you to save your realm." A ghost of a smile flickered over Kathutet's place. "Besides, remember that most of the Dremora here were banished here for the same reason as me. They, too, swore to serve Dagon... and most agree with me with what must be done. Even some of the once-mortals have agreed to join me; they, after all, have reason to hate Camoran." A distasteful twist to his mouth showed what he thought of the idea.

Within the space of two minutes, the warlord had seen his chances improve significantly, but he refused to get ahead of himself. "We have to strike quickly, before Camoran has a chance to organise, or to call Dagon for help."

The Dremora snorted. "Dagon has other things to occupy himself. It is doubtful that he will listen to his follower's pathetic mewling right now. But you are right; we must strike hard and fast. Your weapons and armour are nearby." He paused in turning towards the opening. "Camoran might not have detected us yet, but he certainly will if your Silence spell disappears. I am capable of dispelling it, but I will not until I know we are secure."

"I understand. We-" He was cut off by the sounds of scraping and grunting in the tunnel outside. Kathutet placed a wary hand on the hilt of his sword before shaking his head and grinning unpleasantly.

"Do not worry. It seems that Camoran will not be supported by his children after all." Two Dremora entered the small chamber, dragging a naked Ruma Camoran with them. The Altmer's wrists, elbows and ankles had been bound with strips torn from her robe, and more had been forced into her mouth. Her eyes were furious, but her desperate struggles did not slow the Kyn as they threw her into the far corner. One of them wore the robes of a mage, who was almost definitely maintaining a Silence spell on her. "Guard her well," Kathutet told him. "Rape her if you wish – her attitude certainly deserves it – but make sure she does not die or escape." The mage nodded and smiled, stepping towards the captive and clearly taking pleasure in her increasingly frantic attempts to break free.

"We already took her brother," reported the other Dremora in the language of the Kyn, sparing only a single glance for Gorgoth. "He was not surprised as easily as she was. He wounded three of us before we could Silence him and knock him unconscious. He's under guard just down the hall." The warrior-shaman's knowledge of the Dremora's language was far from perfect, but he knew enough to keep up.

Kathutet nodded and loosened his sword in its scabbard, motioning for the two of them to follow him, closing the rocky door behind them. The hallway was narrow with jagged rocks protruding from nay angles, but torches held in stone brackets provided enough illumination for the Valkynaz to dispel his light. "Most of the Dremora in Paradise have joined me," he explained as they made their way along the passage. "Those that haven't have not actively opposed us; they hate Camoran just as much as we do. The lesser Daedra will obey us, but they will not fight him either. They are no threat to either. The Xivilai..." He shook his head. "Some have resisted, but they are few in number here. I have ordered those under my command to stay in the Savage Garden. They will probably obey, but even if they don't, we have over twenty-five Dremora to fight six Xivilai. We will win." He stopped at what seemed to be another rock door. "We also have a dozen once-mortals on our side. Some are mages with a degree of competence, and they will take suicidal risks, given that they'll be reborn here within five minutes anyway and killing Camoran is the only way to escape." He pulled a lever cleverly disguised as a sharp rock, and the door slowly ground down into its alcove.

"At least you have things here well in hand," grunted Gorgoth as he entered the chamber. It was small, with only two torches for illumination, but there was enough light for him to see his armour, weapons and clothing piled against the far wall. "Have you got a plan for defeating Camoran?" he asked as he moved over to start pulling on his clothing.

"You might be weakened – I can tell that you are tired – but so is he," responded Kathutet. "He was masking his own fatigue for the entire fight. When he dispelled it, he almost collapsed from exhaustion. You nearly had him." The Valkynaz leaned against one of the walls, watching the door. The other Dremora did the same opposite him. "Now it is you, me, and over two dozen battle-hardened Dremora against him alone. Several of us have considerable magical ability, and the rest can cover our rear. We have the upper hand." His rough voice was full of conviction.

Gorgoth was already tightening the straps on his boiled leather as he met the Kynaz's gaze. "You know exactly what you're doing. Dagon will not be pleased." He reached for his chainmail.

Kathutet sighed, slowly clenching his fists. "All of us know that his rage is likely to be great," he replied, his tone thick with resignation. "But the knowledge that we are doing our duty, that we are in fact serving him, will see us through whatever punishment he sets us." He folded his arms. "I have lived for a few thousand years yet, and I know I will live for many thousands more, most likely; the prospect of ten years of agony can be endured. It _must_ be endured, if it comes to that."

Looking around, the Orc saw the signs of grim resignation on every Daedric face. "It will be me that Tamriel loves at its hero, Kathutet," he said. "But truly, you are its saviours."

Several of the Dremora snorted. "Who would have thought it?" muttered Kathutet, looking like he had briefly contemplated rolling his eyes. "Fame in the mortal world does not interest us. Killing Camoran and destroying his Paradise does. We have little time."

Gorgoth took the hint. Within minutes he was fully armed and armoured, testing the bowstring on Trueshot. He hadn't used it in the first fight against Camoran because the Altmer would have destroyed him before the arrow left the string, but now that his focus would be divided... "Which of you is the best shot?" he asked. One of the Kyn paused before stepping forward, looking suspiciously at the bow. Gorgoth handed it to him along with his quiver. "Arrows fired from this will penetrate any armour, physical or magical. He might have too many distractions to worry about a simple arrow."

The Dremora – he looked like a Kynreeve – tested the draw and grunted. "It might work," he responded in his own language, placing the bow on his back and clipping the quiver to his sword belt.

"I'll want it back." Regardless of whether he killed Camoran and retrieved the Amulet, the Orc did not want to have to return to Tamriel and tell Aerin than he had lost her bow.

"You'll get it back," Kathutet assured him. "But we have no time to waste." He motioned towards the exit of the cavern, and the small army of Dremora followed him and Gorgoth out. Outside in the rocky corridor were a few more Dremora and about a dozen members of the Mythic Dawn in their crimson robes. More than a few looked uncomfortable, but the general mood seemed to be that of determination. The Valkynaz brushed past them all, lengthening his stride and leading his forces throughout a series of caverns lit mainly by the red glow of lava streams. Occasionally they would come across neutral Dremora or members of the Mythic Dawn, getting reactions of disinterest from the former and fear from the latter. They passed through what were clearly torture chambers, full of cages suspended over lakes of lava and other implements designed to cause pain without being held back by the limitations of the victim's mortality. Gorgoth found himself shaking his head in disgust. Camoran's people might have been weak and misguided, but no lord should ever treat his people like this. It was no wonder that so many were willing to defect and try to kill their former master.

As they approached what appeared to be an archway in the rock, a tremor seemed to run through the cavern. Dust started to fall from above, and stalagmites nearby started to quiver. Ripples started to appear in pools of lava. Mythic Dawn members started to look around nervously as cracks started to appear in the rock all around them, but Kathutet did not hesitate. "_Run!_" he roared, obeying his own order by starting to sprint towards the archway, throwing out an arm to magically shatter the rock acting as a door and smash it away. Daylight poured through the opening as a deep rumbling began, immediately intensifying. Rocks crashed down from above as lava seemed to erupt from the pools, splattering over the walls and almost appearing to take human shape. Gorgoth forced his fatigued body to run as fast as it could in heavy armour, following the Valkynaz out of the exit and into the sunshine, diving away and rolling down the slope just as the entire cavern collapsed behind them with a thunderous roar that had probably been heard back in Tamriel.

"Camoran's brought the fucking mountain down on our heads!" snarled Kathutet as he hauled the Orc to his feet. "We have to move quickly before he tries anything else!"

The warrior-shaman nodded grimly, feeling Camoran's Silence spell fade away as his comrade pumped complex dispelling magic into his body. Only three other Dremora had survived the earthquake, though he noted with relief that the Kynreeve with Trueshot had been one of them. None of the five paused to contemplate the fate of their trapped allies or to brush the dust from their armour; within seconds, they were all moving in the direction of Carac Agaialor, which still showed damage from the earlier fight.

All of them were experienced soldiers, so they instinctively spread out to limit the damage that could be done by a mage as they advanced, casting defensive spells to protect themselves against any magical attack. As they approached Carac Agaialor, an eerie silence fell across the landscape. Gorgoth's head was constantly rotating, a spell of life detection active. All his trusted warrior's instincts – the same instincts that had saved his life in battle dozens of times – were screaming warnings at him. Camoran might be tired and weakened, but so was he, and the master of Paradise could manipulate his world itself to strike at them. The element of surprise – so deadly in any warfare – could kill all five of them within seconds.

As they started to ascend the steps of the damaged Ayleid palace, a life signature flashing into existence in the corner of his eye was Gorgoth's only warning. He bellowed an alarm to the others and threw himself from the steps, landing on the grass and rolling away from where he had been before jumping to his feet and turning towards the nearby hill where the signature had appeared. He only had time to distinguish his enemy before the entire front of the palace collapsed inward, melting into the ground, the stone and earth bubbling and hissing as though boiling. One of the Dremora was sucked into the maelstrom, but the others had reacted quickly enough to escape.

Kathutet was the first to react. A solid sheet of white fire engulfed the top of Camoran's hill and dozens of lightning bolts stabbed from the sky, hammering at the Altmer's defences. Before Gorgoth could join in, the master of Paradise had teleported to float in the air above them, his slender face clearly visible, contorted with hatred. There would be no talking and gloating beforehand this time. He was immediately assailed once again by fire and lightning, one of the other Dremora joining in with dark red tendrils of Destruction magic that would kill whatever they touched. The warrior-shaman paused for a second; Kathutet and his companion were using brute force to occupy their enemy, and while the Altmer's defences were holding well, he was preoccupied.

Gorgoth raised a clenched fist, and a hundred filaments of dispelling magic burst from the air a few feet from Camoran. Having them spawn away from him instead of from his hand drained the Orc's magicka more, but his foe had barely any time to react; the Mysticism magic scythed through his defences, swiftly baring him to the relentless attack of the Dremora. He teleported before he was harmed, but he didn't go far, merely reappearing on the ground below where he had been levitating. His magical defences reappeared just in time as two Dremora and the Orc hammered him with whatever Destruction magic they could throw at him quickly. The Dremora with Trueshot loosed a few arrows, but they were destroyed by the magic forces before they even reached their target.

The warrior-shaman stopped casting, snatching a second to think. Brute force would not kill Camoran; even weakened, their magicka pools would be depleted before his defences fell, and he could always command the environment. He had to make use of Kathutet's attacks as a distraction, but if he got close enough to use Blood King, he would be torn apart by his comrade's magic; his own defences were not nearly as good as the Altmer's. Making his choice quickly, he rejoined the fray, once again using Dispelling magics to attack the master of Paradise's magical shielding and wards directly. This time, Camoran was ready; whirling to face the Orsimer, he cast several reflection spells to send his magic streaming straight back at him. The Orc sidestepped rapidly to avoid them; teleporting would use up too much of his magicka pool.

He staggered as the ground shook beneath him, tendrils of rock bursting from the hillside to wrap around his legs and waist, holding him immobile. His enemy widened his reflective spell, putting much of his strength into it; Kathutet and his companion were forced to fend off their own reflected fire and ice, and for an instant Camoran was free to attack at will. Using telekinesis to swat aside an arrow, he raised both fists and clenched them, a dark red glow shining from between his fingers. Barely-visible shadows filled Gorgoth's vision, and agony tore through his body, the pain of ten thousand flaming pins stabbing his skin, the pain of his very soul being torn to shreds and left to rot in the Soul Cairn. It took all his willpower to grit his teeth and purge himself with dispelling magic, following it quickly with healing to repair any damage done. The shadows shattered, clearing his vision.

Kathutet had also survived, though he was reeling, but the other two Dremora had stood no chance against the Altmer's death magic. They slumped to the ground, dying without a mark on their bodies. Gorgoth found himself wondering if the dark magic would have any impact on their rebirth. Casting the thought aside, he disintegrated the rocky arms holding him and put all his strength into a shield as his foe sent fire, frost and lightning towards him. The impact forced him backwards, but his shield held. Another few seconds would have broken it, but the master of Paradise was forced to deal with a recovering Kathutet sending a fire storm towards him. Keeping his shield in place, the Orc dashed towards where one of the Dremora had fallen snatching up Trueshot and a few arrows spilling out of the quiver before turning to face his enemy.

Camoran shattered the Valkynaz's shield, but the Dremora teleported away before the killing blow could be struck. Reappearing beside Gorgoth, his comrade took one glance at Trueshot and nodded. "I'll protect you," he grunted, putting his remaining magical strength into a cocktail of shielding and magical resistance as their foe turned to face them. The Orc had already raised the bow, nocking and drawing an arrow, aiming for Camoran's heart. His target snorted and conjured a wind that whirled around him like a shield, tugging at his robe even as he sent Destruction and dispelling spells at Kathutet's defence. Using most of his remaining magicka, Gorgoth teleported.

He appeared right behind the Altmer, the point of his arrow a bare inch from his enemy's back. He was already releasing as he reappeared; even if Camoran had detected him, he would have had no time to react. Trueshot's enchantment sent the arrow punching through all of the Altmer's magical shielding and into his back, sending him stumbling forward, his magical offensive faltering. The Orc had already dropped Aerin's bow and was swinging at the master of Paradise, a conjured longsword appearing in his hand, cleaving deeply down into the High Elf's chest. Ignoring the blood spurting over his armour, he swung sideways with his other hand, this time summoning an axe. Mankar Camoran never even saw the weapon that decapitated him.

The golden-skinned head hit the ground before the body, rolling away down the hill. Gorgoth wasted no time, dispelling all his spells and reaching down to claw the Amulet of Kings from around the stump of the Altmer's neck. Kathutet quickly moved over, looking down at his former master's headless body with an expression of contempt. He looked pale and drawn, and no wonder, if he felt as exhausted and drained as the Orc. "Fitting that he should meet his end at the hands of a warrior's weapon," he observed, his voice a harsh rasp.

Gorgoth forced himself to straighten, the Amulet dangling from one hand as the other placed Trueshot on his back. Around them, the realm of Paradise was already starting to shimmer and grow translucent, the fabric of its creation beginning to unravel with the death of its creator. "Kathutet, I am in your debt."

The Valkynaz shook his head quickly. "No, Gorgoth. I might have rescued you from Camoran's clutches, but I would have been serving him in Paradise for eternity if you had not appeared, most likely. We saved each other." He raised a clenched fist to forestall the Orsimer's response. "No, I want none of your arguments, none of your protestations. We are comrades, and our bond is of blood and steel and loyalty." He grimaced as the entire realm seemed to shake. "I am bound to Lord Dagon willingly, no matter what he does to me, but if he shatters my oath, then at least I know I still have a place of honour at your side." The Valkynaz extended a hand, ignoring the warping of Carac Agaialor and the howling of the unearthly wind that snatched at what remained of the realm. "Alone among mortals, you have my respect."

Gripping his companion's hand with a gauntlet red with Camoran's blood, the Orsimer responded with one of his rare smiles. "You honour me." The last word was lost to his ears as Paradise was torn apart. He felt Kathutet's hand ripped from his as the world collapsed into darkness and fire.

* * *

Martin realised he was tapping his foot and stopped, irritated. He was under a lot of stress – they all were – but an Emperor had to be in command of his emotions and control his thoughts, or what hope did he have of controlling his men? It was likely that most of the Blades in the Great Hall hadn't noticed, however; there was only a bare handful of them, mostly sleeping, seated at benches in the corners of the Hall, as far from the portal as they could get. Most were wounded; only Caroline and Captain Renault – his bodyguards for the moment - bore no scars from the near-constant battles down at the gate.

The portal was still ever-present in the back of his mind, an odd consciousness dimly felt alongside his own. From time to time he shot glances at the portal itself, but mostly he tried to distract himself by reading or sharpening his dagger. Neither worked. The crackling of the fire, the humming of the portal and the howling of the wind outside could never quite drown out the sounds of battle below, or the occasional scream from where the wounded were placed in the West Barracks. He and Lucius had been forced to conserve their strength, and so only mortal wounds were being healed.

He looked up as the scraping of boots announced an arrival. Caius Cosades appeared from a side door, still weak from blood loss. He was not a natural warrior, but when he'd seen how thinly the Blades were stretched, he'd insisted on joining in, taking plate armour and a katana from the armoury. He'd fought well until a Daedric spear had skewered him. Martin had healed him personally on the battlefield itself; the Spymaster of the Blades was too valuable to lose. Cosades nodded respectfully to his Emperor and lowered himself carefully onto the table across from him. "How do you feel?" asked the ex-priest.

"Weak as a day-old kitten, but I've survived worse," responded the Imperial, looking around, probably trying to find some ale. Finding none, he looked up and met his lord's eyes. "It doesn't take a spymaster to tell you that we'll be doomed if we don't get some relief quickly."

Martin nodded slowly. The Daedric attacks had been coming thick and fast for quite some time, and it was long past midnight, as far as he could tell beneath the black-and-red sky. Cloud Ruler Temple still stood strong, but before long the casualties the Blades were taking would force them to retreat within their massive gates and prepare to sell their lives in the defence of their Emperor. Even the arrows were quickly running out. Grandmaster Steffan, in some of the rare breaks in the fighting, brought disturbing news of rumours spreading among the ranks; Gorgoth had failed, Gorgoth was dead. Bruma had fallen, the rest of Cyrodiil was being devastated. He had done his best to restore optimism, and he knew that the Blades would fight to the death no matter what, but it was still worrying.

"I still have faith in Gorgoth," said the Emperor, for the ears of everyone in the Great Hall as much as the Spymaster. "Once he gets back with the Amulet of Kings..."

"...you'll still have a massive Daedric army to repulse." Cosades shook his head. "I know of this Orc; I was stationed in High Rock, after all. But even he can't single-handedly turn this battle for you, even if he does get back with the Amulet in hand."

"_When_ he returns the Amulet, he and I and a few bodyguards will sneak out and make a dash for the Imperial City to light the Dragonfires," replied Martin. It was the plan that he, Renault and Steffan had come up with a few hours ago. "The City and its surroundings are still Imperial-held, as far as we know. We can light the Dragonfires and end this war within a few days, if-"

He was cut off by the main doors swinging open to admit Lathar, Lucius Varo and a hail of snowflakes. The grizzled master-at-arms pushed them closed quickly; he was closer to seventy than sixty, but he had insisted on serving in the front ranks, and his dai-katana was red to the hilt. Lucius stumbled over to Martin's table and sank down in the chair beside Cosades, looking even older than his hundred years. "I have nothing left to give," he sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Pass the portal over to me. I have bought our forces five minutes at best for now, but I can do no more except free you."

Martin hesitated – the battlemage looked half-dead – but relented at his insistence and shoved the portal's consciousness away from him. Lucius grunted as he took it, and sweat started to bead on his brow, but he waved away his Emperor's offer of assistance. "Your place is on the battlements," he muttered. "There's a Gate not five minute's march away now." The ex-priest nodded and left him, throwing his thick fur cloak around his shoulders before striding out into the storm, shadowed by his two bodyguards.

After the warmth of the Great Hall and its fire, the cold cut through his tattered robe like a knife, but he ignored it. The crushed snow around the courtyard was stained red with blood, and even now wounded Blades were being helped to the West Barracks by comrades who looked on the verge of collapse themselves. Wasting no time, the Emperor walked quickly onto the battlements, nodding to any soldiers he passed. Only a few archers were manning the wall now; most had been sent to fight in the melee to help ration their remaining supply of arrows. Grandmaster Steffan was in one of the sentry towers, leaning wearily on the edge as he peered down at the carnage below. Martin joined him and grunted.

The mountainside was a slaughterhouse. Rotting Daedric corpses were piled high around the approaches to the fortress, and the ground was black with their blood. Corpses in Akaviri armour were also in evidence, but there were far fewer of them, and only close to the castle gates, away from the devastation wrought by archers and mages. Gaping craters pockmarked the ground where fireballs from Martin or Lucius had blasted apart entire squads of attackers. There had to be at least a thousand corpses down there, banished back to Oblivion by a garrison of less than a hundred soldiers and two mages. Yet more were coming; Lucius had spoke truly. There was an Oblivion Gate clinging to the side of the mountain, halfway down the slope, and as he watched the Emperor could see Daedra emerging from it. Smoke and fire obscured his view of Bruma, but he knew there would be several Gates between the Temple and the city; there would be no hope of relief from there. Even now, he could see troops of Daedra creeping across the valley; mortal forces were few and far between, and retreating as often as not.

"We might survive until dawn, if Bruma holds," muttered Steffan, keeping his voice low, for his Emperor's ears only.

Martin felt despair threatening to overwhelm him, but he crushed it ruthlessly. Now was no time to be giving in to the oblivion of defeatism. "Gorgoth will return," he said, attempting to make his voice sound convincing. He probably failed. In the distance, the blare of a war horn reached his ears. Probably a force of Dremora forming up for an attack on the temple or the city.

"I don't doubt Gorgoth, but if he doesn't return soon, he'll come back to a burning wasteland rather than a proud castle." Another war horn sounded, from a different location. "We've got about five minutes before another attack hits us, sire. I need you to disperse their charge before it hits us; they're at their most lethal when daedroth break our ranks."

The Emperor nodded, throwing back his cloak. It had been a gift from Gorgoth some time ago; the Orc had told him he'd need it when winter came. "I have significant reserves. Holding the portal open does not drain them much."

"You should be in your armour, sire," Renault told him. Martin resisted the sudden inane urge to roll his eyes as two more war horns blasted their message across the valley.

"There was no time, unless you'd like to go and fetch it and armour me as I fling spells down at the enemy?" He quickly held up a hand to forestall her; knowing the Captain of the Imperial Bodyguard, she'd probably go and do exactly that.

"If we're to die here, then at least we'll all die well," grunted Steffan, taking a bow from one of the archers. For the first time, Martin saw that he was wounded; blood was drying on the back of his left boot, but the Grandmaster didn't seem to be giving it any notice. Yet another war horn bellowed down below. "Sounds like they're massing."

The Emperor rubbed his chin, calmly considering. Lathar and his lessons had taught him much and turned him into an effective warrior, but no man could ever teach another how to embrace death. He wondered what it would be like; how quickly would the pain fade, how quickly would he be wrapped in the warm embrace of the Nine and brought to Aetherius to be greeted by his ancestors? Would they greet him kindly, despite his bastardy and his failure? Or would they condemn him as the Septim who had failed to preserve their Empire, who had let a Daedric Prince conquer his realm? The Imperial shook his head and stood taller. He could not fail. On the path below, a Daedric force about a hundred strong had formed up and was running up the mountain towards the fortress.

Steffan was preparing to order his men to sortie when a Blade came hobbling up, leaning on a staff and walking as quickly as he could despite the plaster around his right leg. "Grandmaster!" he shouted, throwing out a hand. Martin vaguely recognised him as Marcus Corvus, one of the more experienced Knight Brothers. He'd broken a leg two hours ago when a daedroth fell on him.

"What is it?" asked the Grandmaster, irritation clear in his voice.

"I've never heard a Daedric horn, Grandmaster, but I _have_ heard those kind of horns before." The Imperial stopped before them, leaning heavily on his staff, his face grey with pain and effort yet alive with hope. "I served in the Legion before coming here, Grandmaster. Those are _Legion_ horns!"

Steffan raised an eyebrow, but before he could reply a shout brought their heads round. Aerin was pointing down into the valley, stark disbelief etched into her features. Martin and his Grandmaster quickly moved over and looked where she was pointing.

A large Daedric column that had been marching towards Bruma was in disarray, desperately trying to turn and face the volleys of arrows and bolts that scythed out of the trees either side of them. Another war horn blared, and heavy cavalry smashed into their flanks, shattering any notion of order that existed and cutting down their immortal enemies left and right. More movement in the valley tore Martin's gaze away as he saw several centuries of heavy Imperial infantry appear from amidst the smoke and fire, crashing into surprised Daedric formations and killing scores within seconds. Other centuries moved forward in their usual shield-wall formation, their signature tower shields forcing Daedra back towards yet more Imperials. A Gate winked out, then another.

"Took their bloody time," muttered Steffan, but Martin could detect the sudden hope in his voice. He himself couldn't stop the smile spreading across his face.

"There's more coming up the mountain," pointed out Aerin.

A force of at least two hundred cavalry were indeed starting to ascend the mountain at a trot. The Daedra from the Gate paused, uncertain, before turning and charging down the road with reckless abandon. Beside the Emperor, Steffan winced; he knew what charging heavy infantry with the advantage of a steep gradient could do. But the Daedra never got their chance; chain lightning scythed through their ranks, and more simply exploded, fire bursting from their disintegrating bodies. By the time the horses had reached the Gate, nothing remained but a few stragglers who were mercilessly cut down. Most of the Imperial force turned aside to enter Oblivion, but a force of about thirty continued on, increasing their pace.

"Open the gates," ordered Martin. By now, his smile was so wide that it felt like his face was splitting in two. The Divines had answered his prayers. Some of them, at least. As men moved to the winches, Lathar strode up.

"I assume by your face that we're winning, sire. Thought you might want to know that the Orc's back." The grizzled Redguard saluted without even waiting for a response and strode off to the West Barracks to help with the wounded.

The Divines had chosen to answer all of his prayers, it seemed. Resisting the urge to cavort and punch the air, the Emperor turned to Steffan. "Tell the commander of that force that I'll see him in the Great Hall," he said. The Grandmaster nodded, already turning away to bellow orders, his voice drowning out the ragged cheers that had started to spring up.

Gorgoth was standing in the centre of the hall, slowly removing his helmet. Behind him, only charred floorboards marked where the portal to Paradise had once stood. As the Orc took off his helmet and placed it on his hip, Martin couldn't help but notice how tired and pallid his normally rock-hard face looked; his green skin was several shades paler than normal, and there was a very slight sag to his shoulders. His eyes, though, were the same as they always were; frozen chips of yellow ice, devoid of any warmth or mercy. He noticed the Emperor and bowed slightly, holding out the Amulet of Kings.

The Imperial moved forward slowly, hesitantly taking the Amulet – his birthright – from the Orc's bloodstained gauntlet. His eyes were drawn to the magnificent ruby that seemed to drink in the light from the surrounding torches. The gold mounting was studded with other precious stones, and it felt heavy in his hand, but the gold chain was surprisingly slim. He released the clasp, his hands shaking slightly. Renault moved behind him and held his hair out of the way as he placed the Amulet around his neck and snapped the clasp shut. The Emperor looked down at the heavy ruby at his throat, then slowly raised his gaze and looked around him. He might have expected there to be an air of relief around the hall, but there was none; the Blades had all known he was their Emperor, believed it, even named him Emperor before he was officially crowned. They had not needed the Amulet's confirmation. And nor did he, he realised.

Gorgoth's face had not changed, though the sag in his shoulders had gone. "The victory is only half won, my Emperor. We must break the siege and light the Dragonfires as quickly-"

"The siege is broken, Gorgoth," claimed Steffan from behind Martin. "Bruma is safe, as is the Temple. The remaining Oblivion Gates are being closed as we speak."

Martin turned. Steffan had been joined by two others. One was an Imperial in the armour of a Legion cavalry officer. The other was an Altmer whom the ex-priest had never seen before, though he had heard him described. He'd never thought to see High Chancellor Ocato visit him in Cloud Ruler Temple, especially in such a fashion, but the Divines often answered prayers in ways common men would not expect. The noblemer was clad from neck to toe in burnished bronze plate armour which shone in the torchlight. His sword belt was studded with precious gems, and the scabbard of his scimitar was fine leather worked with gold. A golden clasp in the shape of a lightning bolt held closed a red-dyed fur cloak, and numerous runes covering his armour shone with magical enchantments. A soldier might assume that such fine armour was all for show, but Martin could see the chips where the breastplate had turned aside blades, the the hilt of the Altmer's scimitar was well-worn with blood and sweat. In his years as a politician, it had been easy to forget that Ocato had also been Imperial Battlemage for a long time, but it was a battlemage hardened by decades of war that stood before Martin now.

The High Elf's slender, aristocratic face wore a small smile as he took in the Amulet of Kings around the ex-priest's neck, but it swiftly vanished as he went smoothly to one knee, bowing his head deeply. "Martin Septim, I see that you are indeed Uriel's son, and my Emperor." Steffan looked at him sideways with a look not far short of displeasure. Martin understood why.

"Rise, High Chancellor." His voice was calm, emotionless as he tried to speak as an Emperor should. As the Altmer got to his feet, he was all too aware which one looked the part more; he must look like a beggar in tattered rags next to the High Chancellor. "How many men did you bring?"

"I left the Imperial City as soon as I could bring two legions. They are understrength in some areas, short of sixteen thousand, but I have at least fourteen thousand with me, plus all the opportunistic sellswords that rode with us. I gave their legates freedom to close any Oblivion Gate within ten miles of Bruma and Cloud Ruler Temple." A grimace crossed the High Chancellor's face. "Resistance was hard on the road north; we had to close at least ten Gates before we even reached Bruma. Casualties are mounting, but we are driving the Daedra out."

Martin allowed himself a small smile. "Most welcome help, High Chancellor, though unexpected, given the last letter I received from you..." That letter, bearing Ocato's signature and seal, had effectively named him a deluded liar. The Blades had not forgotten.

The High Chancellor nodded slowly, his mouth twisting sourly. "I must offer a humble apology, sire," he said, bowing low. "It was the work of my secretary, a man I had trusted for many years. He was an agent of the Mythic Dawn, as it turns out." He shook his head. "He made sure I never received any of your letters, sire, and he wrote the replies himself. Over the years, he'd learnt a fair imitation of my signature..." The Altmer sighed through his teeth. "If I had known sooner, I'd have surrounded you with an entire legion, but war is not won by 'if's. We are here now, and you have the Amulet of Kings."

It seemed the Mythic Dawn had reached far; they had certainly been preparing for a long time. "I see," replied Martin. "You are right; we must look forward. Put the past behind us. Grandmaster, can we have use of your office?" Steffan nodded, stepping back and preparing to lead the way. "Good. We have much to discuss, Ocato. Have you met..." He turned to gesture to Gorgoth, only to find that the Orc had disappeared. No matter; Martin could talk to him later. For now, he had plans to make. "Lead on, Steffan." He and his High Chancellor fell in behind the Grandmaster, his thoughts already on the upcoming journey to the Imperial City.

He had to light the Dragonfires quickly. Dagon had been dealt a defeat, but he would strike with renewed vengeance quickly, and the Imperial City was virtually undefended. Even so, despite the losses of the Blades, despite his own physical and mental fatigue, the Emperor had to fight to keep a smile from spreading across his face again. The war was almost won.

* * *

**A/N: In case you didn't notice, there is a slight time overlap between the last two POVs; as Martin was standing in the watch tower, Gorgoth was decapitating Camoran. But sometimes that's needed. Anyhow, some parts I'm not happy with, and other parts, I like. And to clarify, I know the actual size of a Roman Legion, but this is the Imperial Legion; while very similar, my interpretation of Imperial Legion has eight thousand men in each field legion. You'll probably get more details when I write my long-distant Skyrim fic...**

**Anyhow, that's another chapter finished. Don't forget to review; I can't improve or take notice of your opinions if you don't. And the end is coming soon...**


	53. Torment

**A/N: Eight weeks... eight long weeks since my last update. This chapter was a bugger to write at times; various parts were big stumbling blocks, and writer's block hit hard. Still, I must apologise for taking so damn long; I know quality will always take precedence over speed, but you loyal readers will always deserve better. But anyhow, the anonymous review replies:**

**TehEpic: That's very high praise... praise I'm not sure I deserve, but at least it means I'm doing something right. And don't worry, that Dremora's not dead; he'll be reborn in Oblivion soon enough. I know what you mean, though. And yes, this fic will definitely be finished by the end of 2013; at least, I hope so.**

**Rokibfd: Not too much time for a strategist to make an impact at this stage, though a spymaster can always be helpful. Eldamil was doubtlessly one of the Mythic Dawn members helping Kathutet and Gorgoth, but he'd have been trapped by the rockfall, and Gorgoth wouldn't have recognised him anyway. As for that Dremora... did he really need a name? He certainly didn't think of any reason to inform Gorgoth of it.**

**A Reader: Again, high praise that I feel is undeserved... but at least it's good to hear that the BaS universe is well-received, because it'll be the setting for all my future TES fic. And it's good to hear my characters aren't boring (the exception, Camoran, isn't my character, thankfully).**

**Random Reader: Good to hear; I always did like the Nerevarine, and I feel he has much untapped potential for dealings in the Fourth Era... but that's theorising for another time, another fic.**

**Underpaid Critic: Whenever I've reviewed something anonymously by accident, I've never been crippled by a character limit... then again, you might be on a phone. Anyhow, yes, I do prefer Oblivion's storyline, but I do feel there's potential in Skyrim's world... as for Callia's plotline, read on and find out. ;)**

**Anonymous: Yes, magic is very powerful; the effect of me adding realism to the ingame magic, as far as the term 'realism' can be applied to magic. The balancing effect is that most of the population of Tamriel is completely mundane. And apologies for the long wait; hopefully the last chapter won't take so long...**

**Yes, the last chapter. It crept up on me suddenly, but you're about to read the penultimate chapter of Blood and Steel. Read on...**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-three: Torment**

Gorgoth woke slowly from a deep sleep, shifting slightly as he opened his eyes. The light of the sun was mostly blocked by the thick curtains over the windows, but he knew that it was well past dawn. In truth, he could use several more hours of sleep; his physical and magical exertions over the last few days had tired him, and his body was pleading with him to just roll over and go back to sleep. But he shrugged off such weaknesses and sat up, the blanket tumbling down his torso. Mazoga was gone from his bed, but he could hear movement in his antechamber. Shoving aside his blankets, he got up and walked over to the window, throwing back the curtains. Cloud Ruler Temple was mostly silent despite the relatively late hour; Steffan had ordered most of his exhausted Blades to rest, and so most of the sentries were legionaries that had came with Ocato. Thirty of them were currently housed in the fortress of the Blades.

The Orc grunted and turned away from the window, pausing to reach behind him and run his fingers through his silky black hair. It felt odd to be wearing it loose after so many years of wearing the war braids, but it was still far too short to braid yet. Mazoga had taken her sword to it last night at his insistence, after he'd finished healing all the wounded he could find. Now, his once waist-length mane barely touched his shoulders, but Gorgoth was not one to hide the shame of his defeat from those who knew what it signified, even if Mazoga had insisted that there was no shame in it; some who wore the braids would not even class it as a defeat, but he knew differently. She was the only one who knew the details of what had happened in Paradise, and he was unlikely to confide in anyone else. Most of the others he'd seen before retiring to bed merely seemed satisfied with the fact that Camoran was dead and the Amulet returned.

He had already put his defeat behind him; it was in the past, and there was never any sense in dwelling in the past, especially when there were important matters immediately at hand. Martin and Ocato would be making preparations for the journey to the Imperial City; they would have to leave as quickly as possible. Over thirty Gates had been closed around Bruma, and as the barriers continued to weaken there was no reason why Dagon couldn't throw thirty more at them. The Dragonfires had to be lit as soon as possible.

Walking over to the large wardrobe in the corner, he wrenched the doors open and fumbled through the clothing that Mazoga had organised for him, ignoring the reek of blood and sweat that reached his nostrils. He probably smelt worse; the last time he'd had a bath was back in his house in Orsinium. Bretons and Imperials and other 'civilised' races would likely call him an unwashed savage; other Orcs would know he had been in battle recently, and there were more important things in the world than making sure he was clean. He was pulling on a thick fur vest when Mazoga shoved the door open and walked in. She never had learnt how to knock.

"Good to see you awake," she grunted as he sat down on the bed to pull on the leather boots he wore under his steel plate boots. "Talk is, half the Temple will be leaving just past noon. Best get something to eat first, and Aerin's here to see you." The warrior-shaman nodded, rising and taking the unstrung Trueshot from where it rested beside the window. It had served him well, but the thought of keeping it had never even crossed his mind. It was rightfully Aerin's, and she deserved it more than him; she was a far better archer than he would ever be, and most importantly, he'd sworn to return it to her. A foolish oath, given how close he had come to defeat, but an oath nonetheless.

The Wood Elf was waiting nervously in his antechamber, her hands clasped behind her back as her eyes darted around the room, taking in the various bits of armour strewn about the place. As he emerged from his bedchamber, her uncertainty vanished and she darted over, throwing both arms around him and burying her head in his chest. "It's good ta see ya back, big guy," she said, her voice muffled by his furs. "Kept us waiting, but I always knew ya'd be back."

"I didn't," he responded as she pulled back from him. "Tamriel came perilously close to destruction." He looked down at her, studying her features, noticing differences. She had certainly changed from the innocent teenager he'd first met in the Arena. Her features seemed harder now, the set of her jaw more resolute. Rips and tears marked her boiled leathers, which were showing other signs of age and hard use. Her eyes still held the sparkle of youth and humour, but there was a harder edge to the Bosmer. She even carried herself differently, more wary than she had before. Aerin had grown up. But then, war had a habit of ageing people quickly. "I told you I would return this," he said, holding out Trueshot. "Your bowstrings are on the table."

The archer's grin grew even wider as she took it from him, running her hands almost reverently over the silver-worked wood. "Was it useful?"

"I used it to inflict the first wound on Camoran. He died easily after that."

Aerin laughed. "Always knew it would come in handy some day." She stepped over to the table and scooped up the bowstrings that Gorgoth had left there before looking back at him and raising an eyebrow. "Did Camoran give you a haircut?"

"No." Gorgoth did not intend to elaborate. Instead, he looked around for the layers of his armour. "I did not have time to learn much last night; I simply handed the Amulet to Martin, healed all the wounded I could find and went to bed." He motioned to Mazoga, who started to collect his boiled leathers. "Help me don my armour and fill me in on what you know."

There wasn't much to tell that he hadn't already worked out or heard from Mazoga. High Chancellor Ocato had led two legions up the Silver Road, destroying any Daedra and closing any Gates they came across. Once they had reached Bruma, Ocato had placed his men at the disposal of General Phillida and continued on to Cloud Ruler Temple with his personal bodyguard. The Legion had taken casualties, but had heavily outnumbered the Daedra; by dawn, there had been no Gates left in the area, and no new ones had opened for hours. Straggling Daedra were being mopped up by the Legion's cavalry.

The body count was grim, however; the legions had lost a thousand dead between them, and the defenders of Bruma had an even longer butcher's bill. Before the battle of Bruma, nearly eight thousand soldiers had been in or around Bruma; of those there were now only two thousand, most of them exhausted and not fit for combat. Many of the surviving sellswords had collected their pay and were planning to leave as soon as they could find a horse. Many of the officers were also casualties. Gorgoth was relieved to hear that Modryn Oreyn was alive – he would need a strong Champion to help him in the first few months of his rule of the Fighters Guild – but Gurbol gro-Rugob and all but eighty-six of his horsemer had fallen, along with most of their horses. Gothren Sadri was dead and most of his Dunmeri with him, and so were Captains Ulrich Leland and Dion, along with the Grand Champion of the Arena. Arch-Mage Merissa was on the brink of death, and most of the Fighters Guild had been decimated. Captain Burd had lost a hand, but insisted on continuing his duties, pointing out that it was only his left hand. The military arm of the Blades had almost been wiped out; just over forty remained who were fit for battle.

Some of Aerin's light-heartedness gave way to sobriety as she recounted the grievous losses the Imperials had suffered, but hints of awe were evident in her voice as she spoke of acts of individual heroism. "Huzei says Saliith killed at least a dozen Daedra even with their blades sticking out of him," she said as she checked over his heavy chainmail shirt. "Ulrich Leland was a corrupt bastard, but he fought on with a dagger when his sword broke. When he lost that, he fought on with fists and teeth until they chopped his head off. Uriel Signus supposedly killed over twenty Dremora before getting killed saving Gnaeus."

"They fought well and died bravely in a battle that will be sung about for ages to come," grunted Mazoga as she picked up his breastplate and backplate. "Can't ask for more than that." She leaned forward to secure the plate armour over his chest and back, her fingers working expertly at the straps. "The Orcs you took from Burzukh are dead, every one. At least they died honourably."

"True. But it is the living that concern me more at the moment." He kept still, letting the two of them work at his armour; helping himself would only impede them, and once he returned to rule in Manruga he would have to get used to multiple battle-servants doing this for him. "Tell me of Martin and Ocato and their plans. They must leave to light the Dragonfires sooner rather than later."

"We'll be leaving before noon with considerable strength, but that's all we know so far," responded Aerin as her small, deft fingers tightened straps that Mazoga's thick hands were having trouble with. "And noon's only two hours away, so ya'd better hurry up with whatever you're planning, big guy."

"I am planning something?" he asked her, looking down at her and arching one eyebrow slightly.

She blushed slightly and turned her head away. "I might not know ya as well as some, big guy, but I know when you've got something on your mind. I think." Mazoga snorted but said nothing.

Gorgoth shook his head. "I plan to find Martin and Ocato and learn their plans for getting to the Dragonfires as quickly as possible. Camoran might be defeated, but until this war is over, Martin still needs me at his side." Mazoga fastened his steel-link sword belt around his waist, the Thornblade and his Akaviri dai-katana already attached, along with several potions. The oath he had sworn to Jauffre required him to place that katana at Martin's feet when the war was over, but he wouldn't miss being part of the Blades; he had a guild to run and a province to rule.

Aerin stepped back from fastening his greaves and looked down at her feet, suddenly looking uncomfortable. Now almost fully armoured, Gorgoth sat down on the nearest chair and pulled on his steel boots himself as Mazoga fetched Blood King and Sinweaver. "What is troubling you?" he asked the Bosmer.

She looked up and met his gaze. Her eyes were nervous, and held fear, but also held a hint of steel in them as well. "Would you ever rape me?" she asked bluntly. Mazoga whirled so quickly that Sinweaver almost slid from her hands.

He folded his arms and returned her gaze, tilting his head slightly and tapping one of his canines. She didn't flinch or blink. Yes, she truly had grown. He liked that. "No," he replied eventually. "Not you. Not ever you."

"Why?"

The hint of a smile threatened to pluck at his lips. He forced the urge down. "Lurog was a good Orc. A good soldier. No, better than good. I would never betray him. I would always watch his back in battle, and he would always watch mine. I would suffer for him. I would do much for him, no matter the cost, through fire and defeat. Because I _liked_ him, and respected him." He leaned back in his chair. "No, Aerin. I would not rape you. I would bring death and slaughter down upon those who would. Because somehow, in our months of fighting together, you have wormed your way under my skin and earned my friendship and respect." He paused. "Somewhat. You are no Lurog." _And no Urag, nor a Dura, nor a Krognak, nor a Burzukh, before he betrayed me._ But his mercenary company was dead or scattered, and it would be unfair to compare a barely-mature Bosmer to battle-hardened Orcs.

Aerin gazed at him blankly for a few seconds before a grin spread across her face. "That's... good ta know, Gorgoth," she said, turning to the side and scratching at her nose as if embarrassed.

He got up so Mazoga could fasten the steel-link belt that crossed his chest, holding Blood King and Sinweaver to his back. "You talked to Callia." It was not a question, and her wince was answer enough. "Yes, her mother's blood is on my hands, though it was not my intention to kill her. I have raped many times, and would willingly do it again; women of a conquered enemy are spoils of war to do with as I wish. This, and so many other things, are as old as war itself." He shook his head. "You will form your own opinion of me, Aerin, untainted by what anyone else thinks of me. That is all I ask. Should you wish to have nothing more to do with me, I will understand. Your way is not the way of Malacath." He might not agree with any other ways, but he did respect the right of others to choose their own path, however weak it was. So many Orcs lacked that kind of empathy, but he knew it was a strength; forcing others to ways of thinking that were not their own would only alienate them.

The Wood Elf blinked, unable to completely conceal her shock. He thought he heard her mutter something about layers as she rubbed her nose, her eyes darting around the room as she thought, looking anywhere but at him. Mazoga finished securing his belt and stepped back, his helmet in her hands.

"Ya know..." Aerin finally looked back up at him, stepping closer. He could smell the dried sweat and blood on her leathers, relics of the battle. "Has anyone ever compared ya to an onion, Gorgoth? Every time I think I'm getting to know ya, another layer peels off."

He resisted the sudden urge to smirk. "I have never heard the comparison made before. But I can tell you that you have peeled most of my layers back."

She pouted. "Most? Not all?"

Gorgoth shrugged. "Not even Mazoga or my King knows my heart. Not truly. I doubt anyone ever will." He would recount his entire past to someone if he felt the need, but his own personal torment... that was his, eternally locked within his heart.

The archer rolled her eyes and stepped closer, beckoning for him to lower his head before rising up on her tiptoes and kissing him on the cheek. She dropped back down onto her heels and smirked as he cocked an eyebrow. "I've been thinking, big guy, and you might just be the best thing that's ever happened ta me."

This time, he raised both eyebrows. "Even after all the pain you've been through? Even better than Ilend?"

She snorted. "I'm not in pain right now, am I? I survived. And I love Ilend with all my heart, but I wouldn't have met him if you hadn't come along. If I hadn't met ya in the Arena grounds, hadn't been so damned bored that I persuaded ya ta take me along, I'd... still be there, probably. Or most likely rotting in the sewers." She shook her head. "It was hard at first, Gorgoth, but ya saved me from a base existence, scraping what I could from the Arena, and actually gave me purpose. And I fell in love with an unshaven, unwashed half-bear along the way." A broad smile crept across her face as she took his gauntleted hand in both of hers. "Gorgoth, ya gave my life _meaning_. How could I not like ya?"

"You might be giving me too much credit, Aerin," he replied. "Yes, I offered you a different path. But you could have stopped and gone back at any time, and life back at the Arena might well have been easier. You had the strength to keep going and realise that your life's calling did not involve rotting at the Arena."

"And I'd have been mad ta go back. Either way, Gorgoth... I wanted to thank you. From the depths of my heart. Truly. If..." She hesitated before dropping to her knees and bowing her head, still holding his hand. "If there's anything ya ever need, I'll... I'll try ta help ya. Just let me know."

The warrior-shaman let a slight smile curve his lips upward as he pulled her back to her feet and placed his free hand on her shoulder. "I'll keep you in mind, Aerin," he promised. "I'd advise you to join the Guild. It would be easier for me to find you there, and I am already planning-"

She laughed, cutting him off. "Don't worry, Guildmaster, Ilend already convinced me there. I'll be going with him to Kvatch; he's reforming the Guild branch there. I'll join as soon as the war's over."

He nodded. "Good. We've taken heavy casualties in the battle, and rebuilding will take time." Withdrawing his hand from hers, he looked out one of the windows, taking his helmet from Mazoga and hanging it from the hook on his sword belt. "Time is pressing on, my friend. Is there anything else you wanted?"

"Apart from trying ta convince ya to take a bath?" She wrinkled her nose before laughing. "Nah, I haven't washed in ages either. Ilend doesn't seem ta mind. Then again, he smells even worse."

"We all smell better than we would rotting in a mass grave." The warrior-shaman looked over his armour again despite knowing that it wouldn't have changed from when he'd given it a thorough examination the night before. There were scratches in various places on the dark steel, and a few small dents, but nothing that would compromise his protection even slightly. "Come. We should make preparations to leave. You will be coming with us, I assume?"

She nodded as all three of them walked towards the door. "I've come this far. Me and Ilend are both going ta see it through ta the end." She grinned as she preceded him through the door. "Might even hear ya laugh before the end of it. I've never heard ya laugh, big guy."

"And I doubt you ever will. It's been so long that I might have forgotten how." He had been serious even as a child, apparently, but he'd have laughed even then. All his humour had died with his mother. He shook his head as he left his chambers. "I need to find Martin and Ocato. Where..." His voice trailed off as Ilend hurried up the long hallway of the Royal Wing.

The Imperial had clearly fought long and hard; his chainmail was torn in several places, his shield almost destroyed, and his bearded face was still slightly haggard even after resting, but his eyes were still alert. "Good to see you, Gorgoth," he said, nodding in greeting. "I was looking for you. Two people just entered the temple looking for you. Dralasa and a big Orc called Krognak."

"_Krognak_? Krognak gro-Durak?" Ilend shrugged. "I thought he was dead," muttered Gorgoth, pushing past him and walking swiftly for the exit. The last time he'd seen Krognak – a loyal friend and one of the best swords in his old mercenary company – had been just before Gorgoth's head had been caved in by a mace several months ago, leading to his transportation to Cyrodiil in chains.

"You thought he was dead?" asked Mazoga, quickly catching up to walk beside him. "What happened after I left for Skyrim?"

"He was in the same traitorous ambush that saw me captured and sent to Cyrodiil. I assumed they'd killed or executed everyone, and King Gortwog didn't mention it." He only remembered parts of that fateful day; the mace blow to his head had done damage, but he distinctly remembered his entire squad getting cut down around him by the well-placed enemy battlemages. Silenced, and a victim of the most deadly weapon in warfare – the element of surprise – he could dimly recall smashing several legionaries aside as he attempted to fight his way towards the battlemages. He couldn't remember what had happened to Krognak, but he hadn't expected him to be among the living.

A light snow had started to fall as clouds spread across the sky, but the warrior-shaman ignored it as his gaze fell upon the two elves standing by a brazier in the nearly deserted courtyard. Dralasa Helas appeared completely unchanged by the war; her cream silk dress was barely wrinkled and she'd even had time to apply a bit of makeup before making the journey from Bruma. She seemed a bit tired, but there was no other sign that she had driven herself to exhaustion in a pitched battle just two days ago.

Krognak gro-Durak, on the other hand, had clearly been fighting recently; his dark steel plate armour was scratched and dented in various places, and dried Daedric blood was still evident in folds in the steel. The warrior was a heavily-built Orc, just two inches shorter than Gorgoth and almost as wide. He was young – only twenty-four – but his black war braids were long, hanging down to the middle of his back. His broad, rugged face bore a few scars already, and his large yellow eyes had seen more fighting than many Orcs far older than him. The massive greatsword on his back was taller than most Bretons, and his skill with the blade was considerable for one so young.

Upon seeing Gorgoth, the warrior's grin almost split his face in two. "_Gorgoth_!" he bellowed, quickly striding across the courtyard and enveloping his old friend in one of his characteristic crushing hugs. The entire fortress had probably heard him; his powerful voice could easily be heard on the battlefield. "It's been far too long, my friend," he continued in a quieter tone. "I almost thought you'd forgotten about me." He laughed as though to indicate the absurdity of that thought.

The warrior-shaman allowed himself a small smile as he returned his comrade's embrace. Krognak was a rarity among the Orcs who he had gathered to live with after leaving his father's influence; he actually had a kind soul. He'd never raped a woman in his life and he even gave to beggars on occasion. Lurog had often commented that Krognak's big heart had more than made up for Gorgoth's apparent lack of one. While the warrior was an implacable enemy on the battlefield who often fought with unbridled ferocity, his mighty voice was far more often raised in song and laughter than in anger, and he was free with the wealth he'd earned as a mercenary in Gorgoth's company. "I hadn't heard any news of you in months," he said as his comrade's grip finally loosened. He could almost feel the curiosity of Ilend and Aerin behind them; they were speaking in Orcish.

Krognak snorted. "The same can't be said of you," he replied, stepping back and looking his old captain up and down, his gaze lingering on the belt buckle of his sword belt, fashioned in the shape of a clenched steel fist. "When I first heard of the exploits of the Hero of Kvatch, I was too busy fighting Daedra to pay much attention. Then I heard more about him, and I knew it was you." He grinned again, exposing his full set of impressive teeth. "There aren't many seven-foot stone-faced Orcish warrior-shamans in Cyrodiil, after all. You always do seem to leave a pile of smoking, dismembered corpses behind you wherever you go. Easy to follow the trail." He laughed, slapping the warrior-shaman's shoulder. His eyes slid sideways and settled on Mazoga. "And look who it is! Haven't seen you in years, Maz!" He shouldered past Gorgoth and grabbed Mazoga in a hug so tight she was lifted off her feet.

"You took your time," Mazoga managed to wheeze, creditably not even wincing as the air was forced from her lungs.

Behind them, Aerin cleared her throat. "I assume ya know this guy, Gorgoth?" she asked, looking on with a raised eyebrow as Krognak put Mazoga back down.

"You could say that," responded the warlord. "Aerin, Ilend, this is Krognak gro-Durak of Wrothgaria, a friend of mine for five years and a good warrior. His Cyrodilic is not good, but he believes that if he shouts loud enough that won't matter." He stepped back and indicated the two of them to his old comrade, switching to Orcish. "Krognak, these two are Ilend Vonius and Aerin. She's one of the best archers I've ever met and is almost as deadly in her own way as Arathor. Ilend is a good soldier who's probably closed more Oblivion Gates than you have. They've both been good companions to me for months now."

"Any friend of Gorgoth's is a friend of mine," announced the Orc, stepping forward and gripping the shoulder of each of them, his wide smile breaking any confusion that the language barrier might have caused. "Not that he has many friends. Ha! Took me long years to earn the right to be called that."

"I've got no idea what you're saying, but ya seem like a friendly Orc," Aerin told him, returning his smile even as she winced at the pressure on her shoulder.

Gorgoth was distracted by an insistent tugging on his arm. Dralasa never had been the most patient of Dunmer. He turned towards her and found his vision blocked by her fiery mane of hair as she leapt up and wrapped her arms and legs around him in typical Dralasa fashion. "I missed you," she told him in between kissing him on both cheeks.

"I can tell," he replied, one of his arms snaking around her slim body to squeeze her against his armour. He'd always thought it would be uncomfortable for her, but she never seemed to mind. "I heard you did something useful for once." From what he'd heard, the Dark Elf had been throwing death and destruction at the Daedra until the very end of the battle, at which point she'd collapsed from exhaustion.

She pulled back and snorted, her eyes mere inches from his own. "Well, I had to prove I'm more than just 'that Dunmer who fucked half the army'." Her eyes flickered over his shoulder to rest on Krognak briefly. "Besides, that big bastard over there made it all worthwhile afterwards." He was used to seeing that wicked smile spread across her face; it often did when she referred to Krognak. The two of them were so close and had shared blankets so many times that they might as well have been lovers.

"He often does." He unwrapped her legs from around him and put her back down onto the paving stones of the courtyard. "When did he get here?"

"When the Legion did. Turned out he'd fallen in beside them on the Silver Road after closing a Gate almost by himself."

The Orc nodded. "He would." Krognak was a fighter of immense skill and a complete lack of self-preservation if he saw something worth fighting for. Turning, he resisted the urge to smile. The large Orc was between Ilend and Aerin with an arm wrapped around each, attempting to teach them Orcish. From the bemused expressions on their faces, he wasn't having much success. "Krognak. Could I have a few words in private?" He turned away as his old friend extricated himself, moving up towards the outer wall of the temple as the warrior fell in beside him. Mazoga stayed back with the others; she knew that 'in private' would exclude her, however much she resented it.

He was straight to the point, as ever. "The ambush that felled me was perfectly executed and well-planned. How did you escape it?"

His comrade snorted, looking out over the Gate-strewn valley. "They Silenced you, but not me. I'm no shaman, but that magic you taught me helped me get away." He shook his head, his grin fading. "It didn't feel good, running away like that, but when I saw you fall... someone had to tell the King. And he had his revenge, but we all thought you lost." His grin returned quickly. "Ha! More fools us, eh? It takes more than a mace to the head and a trip to prison to kill you."

"Many others have tried and failed since then." _Some almost succeeded_. "I'm sure you've heard much about my accomplishments. What about yours? You will not have been idle."

Krognak laughed. It was often said that only his battle roar was louder than his laugh. "Sat on my arse for a few weeks. Drank a few taverns dry in your memory. Then Oblivion Gates started opening up, and I went in and closed them. Soon enough I was leading a company, like you did with us back in the good old days, except all we did was fight Daedra and close Gates." He patted the hilt of the greatsword on his back, smiling fondly as they approached a watch tower. It was manned by a legionary; most of the Blades were still resting and recovering from the siege. "Then Dagon finally learnt that he wasn't going to crack Orsinium. King Gortwog, in all his wisdom, sent an army to help clear eastern High Rock of Daedra. We were bloodying them when I first heard news of you. Packed my bags and left at the first opportunity."

"I knew you would be in the thick of it. It was always like you to throw yourself where the fighting was thickest." He stopped and leaned against the outer wall, looking sideways at his comrade. "Some of those scars on your armour are new."

"And your lack of hair is new is well. Never thought I'd see the day when my hair was shorter than yours. Who defeated you, Gorgoth? Remind me never to cross him."

"You won't. He's dead by my hand." He noticed the other Orc's raised eyebrow. "Mankar Camoran, the leader of the Mythic Dawn, the cult behind assassinating Uriel VII and letting these gates open across Tamriel. He struck me down and forced me to my knees, but made the mistake of giving me the opportunity to get back up."

"Wasn't really a defeat then, was it?" Getting no reaction, Krognak punched his shoulder and laughed again. "You always were too stiff in your honour, you old statue. Well, you can still beat me bloody in the practice yard, and that's all I need to know. And you're a lord now to boot. Should I bow and scrape and call you Lord Gorgoth?"

Gorgoth finally let a small smile curve his lips upward. He had missed Krognak. "Malacath himself would have trouble taming you," he said. "All I ask of you is that you keep your sword sharp and watch my back. And keep your wits about you; everyone thinks you have less than you actually possess. You never know what may be lurking in the shadows, and a warlord casts a long shadow."

The warrior chuckled, gazing out over the landscape. Smoke was still rising from the charred ruins of Gates, and snow was melting before it even reached the ground anywhere near them. "That he does. My sword is yours, Gorgoth. As it always has been. I'll swear a Bloodguard's oaths, if you'll have me. Not good for you to have no one to watch your back." His tone grew serious, and his wide mouth turned down at the corners. "Dralasa told me about Lurog. The old bastard died well, but how I wish he'd lived."

"What we wish is of no concern to anyone, least of all me. What concerns me is reality." The warrior-shaman started idly tapping his canine. "Dralasa claims you closed an Oblivion Gate on your way here, almost on your own."

Krognak snorted. "You know Dral. She exaggerates everything. I had eight sellswords with me who'd fallen in beside me on the journey, and only one of them came out alive with me. I had to drink most of my potions as well, and my magicka ran dry." The Orc's magic was both a blessing and a curse to him; he was passable in Destruction, Mysticism and Alteration, and had a small magicka pool to call upon, but being born under the Atronach had stunted its regeneration. "I saw that even more were ahead of me, between me and Bruma, so I sat down on a nearby rock and started to think about how I could get through them when the Legion's outriders found me. I offered them my sword and we punched through. Daedra are good fighters, but they can't stand against fourteen thousand of the Empire's finest."

"Indeed they could not. All the soldiers in the world will be of no use, however, if we linger here too long." Gorgoth took one last look over the scorched earth below them then turned away, walking off in the direction of the Great Hall. "This war should end soon. Martin will be lighting the Dragonfires as soon as he gets to the Imperial City. That will stop Dagon from opening Gates."

"And as we both know, anything including 'should' is never as simple as it sounds." Krognak chuckled. "Well, I've had a bellyful of Oblivion. Dagon can go bugger himself with his razor. Give me back enemies who stay dead and I'll be thankful." He always had been an elf of simple pleasures; Gorgoth might have been envious of his carefree, unburdened lifestyle if he allowed himself to feel envy.

The warrior-shaman nodded agreement then pushed open the doors to the Great Hall, striding in and looking around for the Emperor. Several of the benches were occupied by Blades in various states of readiness, but his eyes were instantly drawn to the armchairs around the fire. Two Blades standing guard behind one betrayed Martin's presence, and another of the chairs was occupied by High Chancellor Ocato, still in full armour. Gorgoth walked up and saluted them. "Emperor. When are we leaving for the Imperial City?"

Martin looked up. His face had more lines than when the warlord had first met him, and his eyes still spoke of fatigue, but there was determination there as well. He too was wearing his armour, and Goldbrand was attached to his sword belt. "Within the hour," he responded, rising. "You needed your rest, but I was going to send to wake you soon enough. We'll be ready to move once you have eaten. You need your strength."

Gorgoth nodded agreement, taking note of the feeling of hunger gnawing at his wounded stomach. "What's the plan of action?"

"Ocato will leave part of one of his legions here and take the rest back with us as escort, with General Phillida in overall command. We'll move too slowly if we stick to the infantry's pace, so our personal guard will consist of cavalry only, but there'll still be at least two thousand of us, with nearly seven thousand close by. Dagon won't stop us." Martin's voice full of confidence, and there was a hint of a smile on his lips as he placed a hand on Gorgoth's shoulder. "The war is all but over, my friend."

"It's over when the Dragonfires are lit and the barriers are restored. Not a minute sooner." The warrior-shaman's hand closed over the Thornblade's hilt. "Do not let your guard down, my Emperor. Wars can be won and lost in the last minute of a conflict."

Martin nodded. "Have no fear on that count. Even if I intended to relax my security, the captain of my bodyguard wouldn't let me get away with it. She even insisted I don my armour as soon as I got up this morning, for fear of a last-ditch assassination attempt." Behind him, Captain Renault was wearing a small, satisfied smile.

Ocato cleared his throat and stepped forward, studying Gorgoth intently."Yes... you definitely have the air of a Hero about you," he said after a few seconds. "I've met four in my time, and you've all been alike in some way..." He shook himself and adopted a more businesslike demeanour. "But enough about that. It is good to meet you, Gorgoth, Saviour of Cyrodiil."

The Orc snorted. "Is that what they're calling me now?" The truth was growing increasingly ironic. "No, do not tell me. It's not important. Your arrival was most fortuitous, High Chancellor, though you certainly delayed long enough." He saw Martin's curious glance over his shoulder to where Krognak was standing. "Emperor, this is Krognak gro-Durak, an old friend of mine. He came in with the Legion after closing a nearby Gate. Do not expect much courtesy from him, though." Krognak smirked at him and nodded informally to Martin as though greeting an equal on the training field. "Or speech. His Cyrodilic is limited."

"Every sword is welcome," responded Martin civilly, returning the Orcish warrior's nod before turning back to Gorgoth. "But now, head to the canteen. I won't have you collapsing from weakness or hunger during the ride south; we won't be stopping much." He paused. "I didn't mention it, but it's good to see you back, Gorgoth. At points, there were doubts..." He shook his head and let his voice trail off.

"I do not blame the doubters. From what I hear, you seemed to be on the brink of defeat here. Hope often fails in such circumstances. That is why I put no trust in hope." He placed a hand on Martin's shoulder. "It might seem like the worst is over, but Dagon will throw whatever he can at us. We must remain vigilant."

* * *

Panting, Gnaeus let his arm drop to his side, the wooden practise sword held loosely in his grasp. Sweat stained his clothing, and his body was a mass of bruises – both half-healed and fresh – but at least he'd shaken off the rust from his left arm. He'd never be as good as he used to be – his body was growing weaker – but at least he could now acquit himself reasonably well in practice. His opponent, Roliand, bore his own bruises, though he wasn't breathing nearly so hard.

"You getting tired, old man?" asked the big Nord jovially as his opponent stepped back and let his sword slide to the floor. They had the practise chamber to themselves; even Lathar was still resting, exhausted from battle. Roliand had been the only Blade willing to spar with the ex-hermit, largely because he was more rested than his fellows after being taken off combat duty early in the battle. His comrades were already starting to call him Roliand One-Eye.

"I just didn't want to humiliate you any more, you hulking imbecile," growled Gnaeus, walking over to lean against the bare wall. "I know for a fact you won't be proud that you got killed that many times by a cripple three times your age." He wanted nothing more than to slump down into bed and sleep, but he refused to let his weakness be shown so evidently.

The Knight Brother snorted, retrieving his sword belt from the far wall."I'll just use the eye as an excuse," he replied, tapping the black bandage that wound around his head, hiding the empty socket where his left eye used to be. "Or the fingers. I can't hold a shield like I used to." He looked down at his left hand, where his little and ring fingers ended in smooth stumps.

Gnaeus harrumphed. "I'm missing an entire bloody arm, you simple-minded ingrate." He waved his arm dismissively. "Go on, get out of here. Bugger off and leave an old man to his thoughts. It's not like I have much else left."

Roliand paused at the exit with a slightly pained look on his face. It made him appear constipated. "Gnaeus..."

"_Leave_, you oaf. It's hard for me to find shorter words to penetrate your thick skull, but I'll try if you keep bothering me."

The Nord still waited for a few more seconds before finally nodding and leaving. Grunting, the ex-hermit let his legs collapse and slid down the wall to sit on the floor, staring down at the stump of his right arm. He'd fought long and hard during the battle for Cloud Ruler Temple, eventually taking a spear through the thigh and getting dragged from the battle. After being healed, he'd slept until the battle was over, and despite still being weak from blood loss, the first thing he'd done upon waking - after eating – was to collar Roliand and drag him down to the practise room. Even that had exposed him too much. The Blades tried to hide their expressions, but he could see the pity and sympathy in their eyes, even a desire to help. He wanted none of it; Gnaeus Magnus simply wanted to die.

After leaving Whiterock, Selene had been his only reason to live; the girl wouldn't have lasted ten seconds in the real world without him, consumed by grief as she was and completely innocent of the realities of life. He'd even cared for her, after a fashion, but then she'd been killed by the lich-king of Miscarcand. After that, rage had consumed him, and he'd distanced himself from his allies, instead finding anything he could to occupy him and take his find away from his own self-destructive anger. Bandits had been felled by the dozen, and the various beasts of the Cyrodilic forest had felt the edge of his broadsword. He'd even slain a group of necromancers and their foul creations, and Meridia had given him the Ring of Khajiiti as reward.

None of it had given him peace or satisfaction; not that he ever wanted peace. All he wanted was to die on a battlefield with a sword in his hand and the bodies of his enemies at his feet, stubbornly resisting to the end. And he'd tried his best, at the Battle of Bruma and afterwards, yet he still remained alive somehow. In the heat of battle, his thoughts had been buried under adrenaline, but now he could curse Uriel Signus for saving him from Chaxil and dying for it, now he could curse the nameless soldier who had found his body and curse the healer who had made sure he survived.

He sighed. None of this cursing would help him, and he certainly wasn't about to take his own life; suicide was the coward's way out. Besides, it took two hands to slit a wrist properly. But the war was almost over; he was running out of chances. The Imperial's body was growing weaker every day, not helped by his ambivalent approach to sustaining it. He hadn't eaten for two days prior to his breakfast earlier in the morning, and he hadn't changed his clothes since the Battle of Bruma; he probably smelled worse than a pig with irritable bowels.

Footsteps from outside reached his ears, and the old Imperial snarled in frustration as he forced himself to his feet, staggering precariously. Couldn't these intrusive fools leave him well enough alone? Some had offered him alcohol, but he refused to contemplate going down _that_ path. He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword as the door swung open to admit Ilend, armed and armoured as though ready for battle. "What do _you_ want, boy?" asked Gnaeus acidly. "Some advice on bedding that handful of yours? She hasn't worn you out yet? Looks the type."

Instead of reacting angrily, as he might have in the past, the Guildsman merely smirked and closed the door behind him. "She certainly tries," he admitted, rubbing the black beard that now covered his lower face. It made him look better, but Gnaeus certainly wasn't about to tell him that. His own close-cropped white facial hair was the only part of his appearance that he still paid much attention to. "But I can find my own way with her well enough," continued Ilend. "No, I'm just here to tell you that we'll be moving out in twenty minutes. Apparently, you hadn't heard already."

The ex-hermit pursed his lips. "I hadn't." In truth, he hadn't given any thought as to what Martin's next step would be; he was too consumed by his own problems.

"Well, now you know. I figured you'd want to come with us. You've certainly been active in this war." The Guildsman looked around at the empty practise room. "And from what I hear, you've been training or fighting non-stop since you lost your arm. I know a death wish when I see one."

Gnaeus snorted. "An old man wants to die well. Your point?"

Ilend shrugged. "No point. Just an observation." He placed a hand on his sword belt. "I'd offer you a healing potion, but seeing as you'd have no use for it, I'd best keep all I can. There's not many left in the Temple." He turned to leave.

"Wait." The younger Imperial looked over his shoulder, a curious expression on his face. Gnaeus struggled with his words for a few seconds; he hadn't thought about this topic or a long time. "I have a family," he finally managed. "At least, I think I do. I haven't heard from them in decades. They live in Anvil, the Magnus household. Anyone should be able to direct you to it. My parents will be dead by now, but my little brother Talin... he might be alive." His voice was starting to strain from forcing the words out, but he felt it important that he not die completely unforgotten.

The Guildsman started scratching his beard again. "And you want me to bring them word of your death?"

"You're quicker on the uptake than I thought you'd be. Yes. When I'm dead, bring them my sword." He looked down at the ebony broadsword in its scabbard. It was a good sword, and old; he'd used it extensively in his career as a mercenary before leaving for Whiterock. It had no magical enchantments, but it cut better than any steel and would last for millennia with proper maintenance. "It'll be no use to me after I'm dead. They might have need of it. Or not. I don't care, really. But it feels..." He struggled with the words. "I just want them to know I'm dead, instead of wondering what happened to me."

"Like they probably have been for the last thirty-five years?" Ilend chuckled. "Don't worry; if you fall in battle, I'll bring them your sword, if I survive. But it's unlikely that there'll be many more battles now. The war's nearly over."

"I know that, whelp. That's what I'm worried about." Gnaeus waved a dismissive hand. "Go on, go and fuck your horny wench. I'll be out in a few minutes. Not to watch you, of course, but to get ready to leave." Ilend left, hiding his smirk behind his hand. The ex-hermit harrumphed as he left. "At least that beard doesn't make you look like such a long-haired ponce any more!" he shouted at the closing door.

Once again, he was left alone with his thoughts. In a few minutes, he would finally leave and gather what meagre possessions he had, but first he wanted to contemplate what he'd just done. Would his family even remember him? His parents were surely long dead, and Talin was the only other relative who would know him well. They'd never got on, he and his little brother, which was probably why Gnaeus had left to join a mercenary band so early in life when Talin was still only a teenager. They'd had sporadic contact since, but apart from a short note to his family, Gnaeus had told no one of his intention to emigrate and become a hermit; the entire point of leaving the world behind was to not be troubled by it again.

He didn't know if Talin hated him or had forgotten about him, or whether he would even care about this final act of closure, but Gnaeus himself felt slightly relieved. At the very least, he wouldn't be completely forgotten as just another corpse in this bloody war. And at least his sword wouldn't go to waste. It was a good sword.

Sighing, Gnaeus straightened his back and worked his neck before walking over to the door. The time for thinking was past; he would be dead soon, and he was determined that he would die as any man should.

* * *

Bruma's main road from north to south had been bordered by teeming masses eager to cheer on their heroic Emperor, so progress had been slow, but after the two thousand cavalry had left the city, they sped up, leading the rest of the Legions to make the best pace they could. Even then, the speed was not quick enough for Martin, who detached a much smaller bodyguard of less than a hundred and pressed on southward as the sun started to fall. Thirty of them were Ocato's bodyguard, and forty more were Blades; Grandmaster Steffan had all but emptied Cloud Ruler Temple and taken personal command of the Emperor's bodyguard.

They had reached the point where the Silver Road met the Ring Road when the Emperor finally called a halt, long after the sun had sank beneath the horizon. It was a clear night, and Masser and Secunda provided more than enough illumination as the small advance party set up camp, the Blades maintaining rigid security. They had seen no Gates on their southwards journey, but they were not about to let their guard down. The group was encamped to the south of the crossroads, far enough away from the road to avoid any casual detection by marauding Daedra but close enough to know if the Legion appeared during the night. Lake Rumare was barely visible through the trees over a mile to the south.

Gorgoth left the rest behind to help make camp, walking slowly towards the lake and stopping to lean against a tree, removing his helmet and folding his arms as he studied the distant Imperial City. The leafless canopy was thin here, and he could make out White Gold Tower silhouetted against the night sky. Dark storm clouds were gathering in the east, but they were normal rain clouds; there was no Oblivion Gate in sight. Apart from the distant sounds of movement and conversation some way behind him, the night was quiet. The grass was damp beneath his boots, and the smell of wet leaves filled the air. For a few moments, a poetic idealist might like to forget that the world was gripped in a savage struggle for survival. But Gorgoth gro-Kharz was a stark realist, and peace was something he would never know.

Footsteps crunching through the leaves behind him turned his head slightly, and Martin came into his peripheral vision, staring towards the palace that he would soon be ruling from. He was still in full armour, and the Blades had made sure he would remain in it until they were certain he was safe. Two were shadowing him at the moment, standing a few feet away to give the two of them some semblance of privacy. "It's quiet," observed the Emperor, folding his arms and leaning back against a tree a few feet away in a pose similar to Gorgoth's. "Too quiet. This war has taught me much; this stillness seems ominous."

"It is the calm before the storm. Dagon will not be idle. And he will know where you are going."

The Imperial sighed, his eyebrows drawing down in a frown. "I would have moved on even faster if it would not kill the horses. I'm still half-convinced that you, me, Ocato, some Blades and a few remounts should press on and make it to the Temple of the One before noon tomorrow. With that water-walking plan you and he devised, it would be easy. And a lot faster."

"Faster is not necessarily easier. Not when we are tired and drained." He looked sideways at Martin. "You look tired, my Emperor. The ritual for lighting the Dragonfires is not complicated, according to Ocato, but fatigue can make even the simplest of magics harder." The aroma of cooking meat reached his nose. "Come. We should eat."

Cookpots of varying size were spread throughout the compact camp, and small knots of Blades and legionaries were squatting on logs or patches of dry earth, eating outside their hastily-pitched tents. Gorgoth, Martin and his two shadows stepped through the camp, returning greetings and successfully managing to avoid treading on anyone's toes before reaching the campfire closest to where Captain Renault had pitched the Emperor's tent. A handful of Blades scrambled to rise and salute him, but the Imperial waved them back down before taking his seat on a log beside two of his bodyguards. Gorgoth was tempted to join him, but spotted Krognak waving to him and instead made his way over to his comrade's fire.

Most of the company not affiliated with either the Blades or the Legion had ended up around the Orcish warrior's fire; Gnaeus Magnus was sitting furthest from the fire, while Ilend and Aerin were sitting with their backs against the same tree. Mazoga and Dralasa were sitting either side of Krognak, who had an arm thrown around both of them. A large cookpot sat in the fire, a long-handled ladle sitting in a bubbling stew, the smell reminding the warrior-shaman that he hadn't eaten since midday. "Hope you're not too lordly now to draw your own stew, Gorgoth," remarked Krognak, laughing heartily as his old comrade approached.

"Never," responded the warrior-shaman as he removed his gauntlets. He took a bowl from where it hung from the rim of the cauldron and dipped the ladle, filling his bowl before sitting down on the ground beside Mazoga. Taking a spoon, he paused and looked around, noting the empty patches of ground where Lurog, Saliith and Selene would likely have sat had they still been alive. Suddenly he recalled the night before they had entered Miscarcand, when he'd thought that he hadn't expected to find such a varied group of companions. Varied and unusual they might have been, but they had been his comrades nonetheless; they had died good deaths, all of them, and he would always remember them; their deaths would not have been in vain.

As he filled his stomach with what tasted like mutton, Mazoga looked sideways at him. "What are we going to do after Martin lights the Dragonfires?" she eventually asked him.

"I haven't given it much thought. Our main focus right now is getting him there alive; thoughts for the future can come after that." He peered down into the murky depths of his half-empty bowl before meeting her eyes. "I would most likely travel back and forth between Orsinium and Cyrodiil, establishing my rule over Manruga and the Cyrodiil Fighters Guild. With luck, I'll be able to set up a teleportation system within months to ease the journey. After I am established, I have... unfinished business to deal with."

She winced, knowing exactly what he meant by that. "Will you at least wait for your child to be born first?"

"No. I have waited for over eighteen years now; I will not wait a single day more than necessary, not even for my firstborn. If I am defeated, there are those who would help you raise him or her; there is Krognak, or my cousin Gramaz. I have an aunt on my mother's side who would help you."

His lover glared at him. "You're _not_ going to die."

A mirthless smile briefly touched his lips. "Everyone dies." He held up a hand to cut short her response. "I am no immortal, Mazoga. I _will_ die one day. So will you. So will our child, and then their children, and then _their_ children. As long as there is a cause worth fighting for in this world I will fight to the last, but I will always attract danger; you must be prepared to bury me or light my funeral pyre when the time comes."

She was searching for a reply when a hand clapped down on her shoulder from her other side. "Don't worry, Maz," proclaimed Krognak. "Knowing him, he'll outlive us all, and his whelps too. Can't see anyone ever being the end of him." Laughing through his nose, he turned back to emptying his third bowl.

"It would be better for you if you were to focus on the pleasures of today rather then the worries of tomorrow, just for now," the warrior-shaman told Mazoga.

Her eyes narrowed. "Better for me? Not for you?"

"I take little pleasure from anything. You, on the other hand, seem to take pleasure from much of the time you spend with me. It makes sense that our outlook on life should be different." He turned away, precluding any further comment, and stared into the fire, eating mechanically until his bowl was empty. The rustling of bushes nearby prompted a spell of life detection, but it was merely one of the sentries making his rounds. Mazoga had fallen silent, whereas Krognak and Dralasa were talking with their typical volume and intensity; their conversation would have been understood by half the camp if any of them spoke Orcish. Ilend and Aerin were talking quietly, each completely absorbed in the other, and Gnaeus was staring into the fire with an unreadable expression, his hand unconsciously stroking his sword hilt.

Gorgoth had heaved himself to his feet and brushed the leaves from his armour, intending to get another bowlful of mutton, when he heard Martin's voice approaching. Looking around, he saw the Emperor backing towards their fire, gesturing at the very reluctant figure of Captain Renault. "If I'm not safe with him, then I'm not safe anywhere. Go on, go back and eat something. You look like you're about to fall over at attention." The Breton reluctantly turned away, leaving Martin free to walk over to Krognak's fire, raising a hand to preclude anyone scrambling to their feet. Krognak and Dralasa's conversation paused before resuming, much more quietly than before.

"I don't mean to interrupt," started the Imperial, sighing contentedly as he sat down with his back to a tree, halfway between Gnaeus and Gorgoth. "But it gets a bit wearing when you're surrounded by subservience all the time. There are times when I just want to be treated like I was still a priest, back when life was simple." He shook his head, smiling sadly. "Still, I have my duty. Even so, it's good to sit for a few minutes in the company of some who see the man rather than the Emperor."

"I see both, but I blunt my speech for no one," responded Gorgoth. "You can speak freely here, Martin."

The Emperor nodded, shifting Goldbrand's hilt out of his ribs. "After I am crowned, my days will probably be filled with all the pomp and extravagance that goes with being ruler of Tamriel. I'll probably have to find a suitable bride to produce an heir, as well." He snorted, rubbing his chin in an attempt to disguise the sadness that had been momentarily evident in his features. "But, of course, these are all worries for the future. Right now... Gorgoth, I have a favour to ask. Not an order, not a request, a favour."

"Speak it."

"The more I get to know you, the more you intrigue me," replied Martin, looking at the warrior-shaman with an expression of undisguised interest. "Of course, Caius knows something of your past, but I have not asked him about it and nor do I intend to. I would much rather learn of your past from your own mouth, if you were ever inclined to indulge me." He paused, scratching the day-old stubble clinging to his chin. "I will understand if you refuse. My own past is not something I like to talk about."

Gorgoth tapped his canine, considering. His past was not something he revealed to anyone; it could all too easily be used against him, and there were certain parts of his history that he would sooner not revisit. Even King Gortwog – whom he trusted more than any man or mer alive – did not know everything, and Krognak and Mazoga even less. There was no logical reason to give Martin and the others anything more than a bare skeleton of his history, yet after all they had been through, he felt that they deserved something more. He respected each of them in their own way; Krognak, Dralasa and Mazoga he'd known for years, and the rest merely months, but war had a habit of forging strong bonds between comrades. Looking around with a spell of life detection, he saw no one else close enough to hear. Grunting, he stood, walking a few steps to stand by the fire. Silence had fallen over the immediate area, and every eye was on him; Ilend and Aerin had finally noticed something more than each other and had stopped their conversation. Even Gnaeus had raised his head.

"I want your oaths that you'll never repeat this to anyone," he said, looking around, his eyes even harder than normal.

"You have mine," responded Martin immediately. The rest followed suit, with Krognak going as far as drawing his dagger and slicing his hand open. Gnaeus shook his head and rose, evidently about to leave, only to grimace and sit back down again.

"What harm can it do?" he growled. "All right, greenskin, you've got my oath, for what it's worth. Tell your story. I'll try not to fall asleep."

The Orc folded his arms, staring down into the fire. "I was born on the second, Last Seed 3E 405." They were the exact words he'd said to Uriel VII beneath the Imperial Prison. It seemed liked years had passed since then, yet he was still only twenty-eight. There were times when he felt much older. "I was born in a tiny mud hut in one of the rougher parts of Nova Orsinium. It still wasn't much of a city back then. The Warp in the West was still twelve years away, and the nation of Orsinium had little power yet, constantly at war with the Bretons. But that is not so important."

"My mother was Kharz gra-Shagren, a prostitute. I take my name from her, rather than from my father, for reasons you will soon learn. My father normally visited her at least once a month, when he wasn't off fighting. One time he visited her when she was out of the herbs she normally used to prevent pregnancy. She refused him even when he told her he'd pay double. He ignored her protests and raped her, leaving me in her belly. I was lucky to survive even before I was born; she dosed herself with certain potions, but she couldn't afford anything of high quality, and so I survived to be born, much to her dismay." He looked around the small gathering, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "Hers was a hard life; she barely made enough to keep herself clothed and fed, let alone to look after a useless infant. Her family and friends urged her to drown me somewhere, or to thrust me into the hands of my father, who did not even know of my existence until several months later."

He stopped briefly, unused to talking at such length, and looked around the small gathering again, casting another spell of life detection. After pausing to enhance it significantly, he continued. "Kharz did not need nor want an expensive, hungry son; I would take up much of her valuable time, cost her more than she could afford to keep; the life of a prostitute in Orsinium is not an easy one even now, and it was far worse back then. But from the moment her sister placed me into her arms, bloody and screaming, she did nothing but love me as her son." Emotions were threatening to rise within him, as he knew they would; he crushed them down again. "I often find love to be a source of great weakness, but it is undoubted that a mother's love is a powerful thing. She did everything for me, working long, arduous hours every night to keep me from going too hungry, even pushing herself to the brink of starvation when times grew hard." He turned away from the fire, starting to pace. "I wasn't always a stone-hearted stoic; what child could be?" Aerin had been wearing a look of surprise for some time; knowing her, she had probably thought he'd sprung from his mother's womb fully grown with a mace in his hand. "After all she did for me, all the love she gave me, how could I not return that? Yes, I loved my mother with all my heart; such unreserved love is a mistake I am not likely to repeat, but children are young and foolish. My lesson was most severe."

"You're still capable of love," interjected Mazoga, frowning.

"I am, though I am now much better at dealing with it. Should you die I doubt I would fall to pieces, and I would torture you to death if necessary." She'd known it already, most likely, but the pained grimace on her face meant that she still didn't like hearing it. "My early years were typical of the children in that rough part of Orsinium; I spent most of my days beating those smaller than me and getting beaten by those larger than me. Little did I know that my father was having me subtly watched. He had stopped seeing my mother after he'd raped her, but nonetheless he'd learnt of my existence a few months after I was born, and while he was no lord then, he still had power; power to watch over me, and a desire to claim me eventually, as he had no other children and no wife. But when he first tried to claim me when I was five, my mother rebuffed him. He tried again, and each time he got a refusal. Unlike most nations, Orcish womer tend to stand on their own two feet instead of relying on men. Short of violence or deception, he could do nothing to pry me away from her."

He paused then, stopping his pacing and staring into the middle distance. Of all his varied memories, this was the one that pained him the most. "When I was ten, he finally acted decisively. Knowing that my mother would never give me up willingly, he sent six of his most trusted Orcs to our house. They shoved me into a corner and made me watch as all six of them raped her and then tortured her to death. They left me alone with her after she was dead, and I was covered in her blood when my father walked in and pried me away from her, taking me back to his home." He could still see the blood-stained shack when he closed his eyes, could still see the mutilated ruin that had once been his mother. Gornakh's thugs had lacked the skill to keep her alive for days, but they had certainly known how to cause pain.

Looking around, he noted the varied expressions. Aerin wore a look of horror and was clutching Ilend so hard her arms were shaking; the Imperial himself wore an expression of mixed sympathy, shock and anger. Gnaeus had pursed his lips and spat, muttering something inaudible. A pained grimace twisted Martin's face, and he was leaning forward with a hand on his chin as though in deep thought. Mazoga, Dralasa and Krognak had heard this part of his tale before, but they were still affected; Krognak's ever-present grin had slid off his face for once. To stop his hands clenching into fists, the warrior-shaman rested them on the hilts of his dai-katana and the Thornblade before continuing. "My prison for several years was the Palace of Orsinium, for my father was Gornakh gro-Nagorm, brother to King Gortwog." Martin seemed unsurprised – he'd heard this before, most likely – but Aerin's eyebrows shot up. "Yes, I am third in line to the throne if you go by blood, but I am unlikely to ever rule Orsinium."

Aerin opened her mouth to interrupt, but he continued over her. "I was brought to the Palace, big and strong for my age but still a ten-year old illiterate child with nothing but a burning hatred for his father. He recognised this from the start, yet he still sought the loyalty, love and respect a son should have for his father." He shook his head slowly. "My respect he has, if only for his skill on the field of battle, and as a Lord of Orsinium I owe him some loyalty, but I knew I would never love him even then. Yet he persisted, and over the years he and his teachers and warriors attempted to turn me into his minion. They gave me lessons, yes; I learnt how to read and write, I studied the nations of High Rock, and I was given brutal training in every weapon I could hold, in every style of fighting known to the Orcs. Gornakh was determined to make me a great warrior in spirit as well as in martial prowess, and in that at least he succeeded. I am now better than most of my former teachers."

"But he also sought to subdue my spirit, to make me completely loyal to him. When I resisted, I was flogged mercilessly, driven on without food or sleep for days, even weeks, but I would rather die than give up, and he didn't want to kill his only son. I always had been a serious, quiet child, but my mother's death and my father's brutalisation of me meant I withdrew completely within myself, building up the emotional armour that I still maintain to this day. Laughter and peace and fun became foreign to me, and my only smiles were bitter. My uncle the King was hard, but still kinder to me, yet he was often away fighting wars or engaged in diplomacy. My cousin Gramaz, the King's son, was only two years older than me, but Gornakh made sure we were kept apart. I was alone, friendless and bitter; my burning rage and desire for vengeance was the only thing pushing me onward at times; my greater understanding of life in general did not come until later. As I grew in strength and ability, my father still had no scrap of subservience from me, but I was still within his power completely. Then the shamans came for me."

"The shamans are a power in Orsinium?" asked Martin, frowning.

"Only where magical matters are concerned; they are sworn to the King like all others, and there is no recognised formation of them. Both of my parents were completely mundane, so it was thought odd that I should have such great magical power; indeed, I am one of the most naturally powerful shamans in Orsinium, though at the time I was only seventeen and a complete magical novice. They desired to train me and bring out my potential, and though my father was loath to part with me, he was eventually convinced to let me go to a series of isolated caverns deep in the Wrothgarians, where Orcish shamans pass on their knowledge. There was more than magic involved; this was before Gortwog started his Trinimac heresy, and like most Orcs I followed Malacath, but the shamans gave me a greater understanding of him. I even made a human sacrifice to him once." Aerin winced but didn't look away; she probably knew enough of his nature by now to not be too shocked.

"After seven long years of my father's domination, this was relative freedom, though the shamans drove me almost as hard as he did even on top of my relentless martial training. I learnt quickly, however, in all schools of magic; I have a fine grasp of all of them, most of all Illusion, though my training in Thaumaturgy and Necromancy left much to be desired; I am young yet, and I still have much to learn. But after two years, they were so satisfied with my progress that they let me go when Gornakh demanded my return, provided I kept up my studies. And so back to the Palace I went; recall that this was seven years after the Warp in the West, and Orsinium was now a great nation." Gnaeus snorted, but the Orc ignored him.

"I now had the power to kill my father if I so wished, but I did not; fighting a single combat with magic against a mundane opponent is dishonourable, and even then he had invested much in enchanting his armour to resist magic. Most of all, he was now a Lord of Orsinium; I resolved to kill him only when he would regard me as an equal."

"And you're now Lord of Manruga," observed Martin.

"Indeed. But back then I was still nothing. My training resumed, even harder than before – I doubt even Bloodguards and Bronze Shields have had harder training than me – but his attempts at forcing my subservience tailed off, though I was still forced to do his bidding at times. In time, he blooded me in battle, taking me along whenever we rode out to fight the Bretons or Redguards; quite common in those days, before the Bjoulsae campaign. He also sent me off on raids, leading other Orcs for the first time. My intense mental training had left me not only outwardly emotionless, but a good commander of mer as well, and my father noticed. He took me with him on the Bjoulsae campaign, and I ended up leading half the Orcish cavalry at the bloodbath that ended that war. My power and reputation grew; enough to worry my father. He was right to be worried."

"Damn right he was," muttered Krognak, his grin starting to creep back onto his face.

"I challenged him openly, in one of the corridors in the Palace. If he still had the strength to rule over me, he would have to prove it. At the time, I had no idea how I won that battle; my father was and still is one of the greatest warriors of Orsinium; even now he has an edge over me. More than that, he had Blood King." His hand reached over his shoulder to tap the great mace's head. "He was one of the weaker wielders, to be sure, but when his blood was up he was still unstoppable. But now I have reasoned out the details behind my victory; Blood King is no ordinary weapon. It has a kind of sentience, almost; it sensed that its wielder was battling an Orc who would be a stronger, better wielder, and so it betrayed Gornakh, sapping his energy instead of giving more power to his blows. Even then, he might have killed me, but I suspect he held something back; he could not truly bear to kill his only son. Eventually he collapsed, unable to continue, and I took Blood King as the new wielder. We would probably have both died of our wounds if King Gortwog had not summoned healers, but my father's dominance over me was at an end."

"And then good times began," claimed Krognak in his imperfect Cyrodilic, raising a flask that was almost certainly full of whiskey or some other strong spirit.

"If you can call them that." He had many memories of his time of relative freedom before coming to Cyrodiil. Not all of them were pleasant. "When I left my father, I had little; no money, no land, not even a reliable place to rest my head for the night. All I had was my armour, a greatsword, and Blood King. But that and my reputation was all I needed. Within months I had formed a small but strong mercenary group. Most of you have met some of the other members; Krognak was one, Lurog another, and so was Burzukh. Mazoga joined later. We moved from small conflict to small conflict, escorting merchants and finding odd jobs in between, when we weren't off raiding dungeons. It made us rich... but it wasn't the life I wanted."

"If I told you of every notable exploit of me and my comrades in that time, the sun would rise and set and rise again before I was finished. Much of Orsinium knows of them; Azani Blackheart, for one, was a feared and respected bandit lord before his ambush backfired and sent him fleeing from Orsinium. But one of my most effective acts is known only to very few, none of whom are here." Krognak and Mazoga raised their eyebrows almost in unison. "The Dark Brotherhood had a branch in Orsinium. Not very large, only nine assassins, but significant. Bretons often make use of the Brotherhood, but this was the only Sanctuary within hundreds of miles; Orcs prefer to be up front about our differences. Anyhow, I went about getting the Brotherhood's attention. I'd already started murdering long ago – at this point I was twenty-five - and now I finished a personal goal of mine; I killed the last of the six that had ravaged my mother. I perfected my skill at torture when I came to each one, and the last knew days of agony before finally dying. The Brotherhood could not fail to notice me."

"Why would you want to join _them_?" asked Ilend, frowning in confusion.

"To destroy them. The Brotherhood are known to be effective; what if they were contracted to murder King Gortwog? A concentrated effort by all nine of them put him in more danger than I was comfortable with. I passed all their initiation tests - I am not stealthy or underhanded, but my magic would make me an excellent assassin – and was welcomed to their Sanctuary as a Murderer. After subtly learning all I could about the Brotherhood, I waited until all nine were in the Sanctuary at once before I killed them all with Kathutet's help. He and King Gortwog are the only ones to ever know of that... apart from the Brotherhood's Black Hand, who covered it up as a Purification. I informed one of the lesser members of their deception some time ago; I cannot help but wonder if that seed has sown dissent in their ranks. But it matters not. I did my duty, and the Brotherhood has never visited Orsinium again."

"Impressive," remarked Martin. "Had it been the Dark Brotherhood instead of the Mythic Dawn, I doubt Uriel would have lived to have met you. I doubt I would have outlived him for long, either."

"It is fortunate that they are not stupid enough to hand Tamriel over to a Daedric Prince to rule." He walked back to his seat beside Mazoga and stood there, looking at each in turn. "There is little more to tell, unless you want specifics. I came to Cyrodiil through no fault of my own, met Uriel VII, become the Hero of Kvatch and returned to Orsinium, where I was made Lord of Manruga."

The Emperor studied him. "So you will soon return to Orsinium to fight your father, now that you are equals?"

"Not immediately. The Cyrodiil Fighters Guild needs my attention, as does Manruga; both have been without effective leadership for too long. When everything is well in hand, then I will challenge him. And one of us will die." His throat was dry from talking for so long. He took a swig from his hip flask – unlike Krognak's, this was filled with water rather than alcohol – and stepped away from Mazoga. "For now, though, I need to be alone with my thoughts. Excuse me." Before anyone could respond, he was walking into the trees, away from the main body of the camp.

He was walking away from the road, deeper into the wood. The person huddling behind the thick tree – their life signature perfectly clear, as it had been ever since he'd cast the spell – didn't have time to run. His arm lashed out and hauled Callia Petit out from her hiding place, dragging her along with him as he walked, ignoring her increasingly loud protests. He finally stopped some distance from the camp, well out of earshot; his spell of life detection showed nothing nearby but a fox slinking through the bushes. "I knew you were there, and I knew it was you," he said, cutting off her questions as he cast a very dim Light spell. "If it had been anyone else, I would have removed them, but you... I knew you would find my past interesting."

She wrenched free of his grasp and stood glaring up at him, the glow of the Light spell sending odd shadows across her bare head. She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off again. "You hate me for what I did to you and your family, I know, but now you know that I suffered far worse... at the hands of my own family. Your mother was never torn apart by your father. You were never your father's slave for over a decade. Your hatred of me is nothing compared for the loathing I have for Gornakh."

The glare had faded slightly, replaced by a look of thoughtfulness. She looked off to the side for a few seconds, audibly grinding her teeth, then looked back at him. "You were twenty-two when you killed my mother. You were twenty-three when you finally defeated your father." Callia paused, sighing. "You truly had no choice when he ordered you to raid my village."

"I did not. As I told you at the time, I was against it. I would not have raided your village or raped your mother if he had not ordered me to. I do not say this to defend myself; I do not need defending. I state it merely as a fact."

The Breton was silent for several moments, pressing her hand to her forehead. "There is a saying of some kind about the Dark Brotherhood," she said eventually. "Something about the Brotherhood merely being the knife in the hand of another. The knife is unfeeling, a simple instrument; it lacks a motive for the killing. It is the wielder, the person who hires the Brotherhood, who is the true killer, rather than the knife."

Gorgoth nodded. "It is true," he said simply.

Callia grimaced, looking as though she'd swallowed something unpleasant. "So... it's not truly you who is at fault for my mother's death, for the devastation of my village. It's your father. He's the one I should hate, the one I have to kill."

"He is mine to kill. He has done far more to me than he ever will to you. And yes, I killed his knives; he claims that he told them only to kill my mother, but how they did it was up to them, and they were certainly willing. I tortured them to death for that. As for me... I was unwilling, and I certainly never meant to kill your mother, but your hatred is your choice."

The Knight Sister grimaced as she started to pace back and forth between two trees. "It's hard to wipe out years of hate in a single night," she growled. "It's..." She shook her head angrily. "Do you have any idea what kind of torment you've been forcing me through all these years? I can't find any peace, I can't-"

"_Your_ torment?" he snarled, cutting her off sharply. "Yes, I killed your mother. Yes, you have fought an internal war with yourself over how to kill someone you owe your life to. Yes, you do not know peace. But your ordeal is nothing – _nothing _– compared to what I have endured these past eighteen years." He was walking slowly towards her, his face contorted in a furious snarl, backing her towards a tree. "Did you love your mother?"

"With all my heart," she replied, her voice barely more than a whisper. He'd backed her up against the tree, pinning her there with his furious gaze.

"Not as much as I loved mine. She gave up much for me, did so much to see me safe and warm and fed; she starved herself, worked through the long hours of the night, serviced the most brutal of Orcs... all for me, an unwanted bastard who she should have drowned at birth. And Gornakh took her from me." He could feel his anger now, a raging inferno, threatening to break free of his iron grasp. "He took away everything I had, Callia. My mother, my love, my freedom, my peace..." He slammed his fist into the tree hard enough to split the bark, causing the Breton to wince. "Peace is foreign to me. It will always be foreign to me, as is happiness. My entire being has been consumed by vengeance for years, only held in check by my iron self-control. You, Callia... you might think you know torment, but you still know laughter and happiness. You can still know peace. There is nothing for me."

She was staring up at him with fear in her eyes now. "After you kill your father... what then?"

"I'll have my vengeance. My useless vengeance. It will not bring my mother back, and my father will be honoured in death for the glory he has won. And the fury that has kept me going these past years will be gone. Do you think I will meekly crawl into my grave now that I have no reason for living?" He snorted. "Life itself is a reason for living, though nothing will ever bring me happiness. I require a purpose. For years after defeating my father I was decaying, slowly rotting away as a sellsword without any worthy cause. That will not happen again. I will always have a worthy cause to fight for in life, to distract me from the unceasing conflict in me. I bury my feelings deeply, but they are still there. Agony, grief, rage, bitterness beyond measure... all these things were ingrained in the bones of a ten-year old boy. I'm no normal Orc, Callia. Part of me died when she did. What other man or elf can say they have withstood such things?" He growled and wrenched himself away from her, turning and staring angrily into the middle distance, forcing his self-control back into place. It had been a long time since he had let it slip so much, and he had never told anyone of his inner torment; Callia was one of the few who might understand, and he doubted that she would ever use it against him.

"I... I don't know what to say." Fear laced the Breton's voice, and if he turned he would no doubt see it on her face. "How... No. You're right. I can still live something like a normal life. You..." She sighed heavily. "Your father still needs to die. It is the only thing that will give me rest."

"I will never know rest. And he is mine to kill. But you can come and watch." He slowly turned back to her, his control back in place, the terrible intensity gone from his eyes. "And afterwards, if you still wish to make me answer for your mother's death, you will know where to find me. But we both know that you do not want to die."

Some of her former hostility crept back into her expression. "Do not expect me to ever like you."

"I would expect nothing else. What person does not hate the assassin that kills their loved one, even if he is merely a knife?" He folded his arms, looking back towards the camp. "But that is for the future. For now we must see Martin crowned and the Dragonfires lit." He motioned towards the fires. "Go on. I wish to think alone for a while. Tell no one of what you heard."

She gave a short nod and brushed past him, making her way back to the camp. He was left alone with his unpleasant memories, staring into the darkness. This war was almost over, and in time, his own war would be ending, in victory or defeat.

* * *

**A/N: This chapter definitely turned out longer than I expected it to by far, and I'm certainly not at my best when writing huge quantities of dialogue, so make sure to tell me what you think in a review; you'll know by now how much I value them. And you certainly have plenty to comment on... I'm not happy with several parts of this chapter, but I did everything I meant to do; I'd planned this chapter long ago (as much as I ever plan anything; i.e not much), back when even Selene was still alive.**

**I'll try not to take too long for the next update; it will, after all, be the last chapter of Blood and Steel, most likely****. I'll certainly make sure it's up to the usual standard, but I'll also try to make sure it's delivered within a reasonable amount of time, as well. Until then...**


	54. The End of an Era

**A/N: I don't know exactly how long this chapter took me to write, only that it was too long. Yes, it's my last chapter and the quality had to be assured, but you, my loyal readers, have followed me this far and thus deserve better. But anyhow, you'll find anything else in the massive ending Author's Note, for now, here's the review replies to those much-appreciated reviewers:**

**Anon: Indeed; and now this thing is finally finished. At long last...**

**TehEpic: Good to hear it worked; I'm not a fan of massive dialogue myself, but I felt that chapter was needed.**

**Underpaid Critic: Indeed it has improved; I look back at my early chapters now and wince at the shoddy quality of them. I really should go back and re-edit them now...**

**Random Reader: Well, nothing after that until he finds his next cause to fight for, though the desire for vengeance always has been his driving force thus far. I doubt he'll find healing, however; he himself believes that he's beyond all healing.**

**Bobb: Yes, admittedly, I skimmed over the religious divide in Oblivion, but in BaS King Gortwog and much of Orsinium most definitely worship Trinimac; one of his titles is the Sword of Trinimac, after all. Most of his court do worship Trinimac, but the Pocket Guide does mention a minority still hold to the old ways of Malacath (Gornakh and Gorgoth are among these, as are the shamans who trained Gorgoth; remember that the spread of Trinimac worship is a relatively recent occurrence).**

**Right, enough from me; here is the final chapter of Blood and Steel. At long last.**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-four: The End of an Era**

They broke camp at the crack of dawn. Martin took them south immediately, negotiating the forest and the morning mist until they were standing rather nervously in two long ranks on a beach facing the City Isle, barely visible through the fog. The horses pawed nervously at the loose sand, detecting their rider's emotions. Gorgoth and Ocato moved through the ranks, casting a spell of water walking on each mount and advising the soldiers that they only had the strength to do this for the horses; fall off and the heavily-armoured warriors would probably drown. Stepping back from doing the last horse assigned to him, Gorgoth brushed his hair out of his eyes, feeling a stab of irritation. He'd been so used to the war braids that he'd forgotten how convenient they were for keeping his hair from obstructing his vision when not wearing a helmet. There were more important things to consider than the availability of a hair band, however, so he mounted Baluk and nudged her to join Martin and Grandmaster Steffan.

"I can't say I like this idea," Steffan was saying as he frowned down at the water's edge, inches from the hooves of his steed. "Solid ground is so much more reliable. And you, sire, will sink like a stone if you fall off; that armour will see you to the bottom quicker than any rock."

"I thought you might make that observation, Grandmaster," replied Martin, a smirk plucking at his lips as he cast a spell, a white sheen covering his body for a split second. "There. To satisfy you, I've just cast the same spell on myself. And we both know that this will save us hours; at this stage, every minute counts." He turned away from the leader of his bodyguard as Gorgoth reined in beside him. "Is everything ready, Gorgoth?"

"My spells are cast. I will maintain them until every horse is on solid ground again. Ocato will probably finish very soon." He looked into the calm, still water. "The horses will need to be eased onto the lake. They will not be used to this."

Martin nodded in agreement, and a few seconds later the High Chancellor rode up, his bay stallion looking every bit as magnificent as he burnished bronze armour. "My spells are cast," he reported.

"Good." The Emperor gently guided his reluctant mount forward onto the water before half-turning and raising his voice to address his bodyguard. "We will advance across Lake Rumare until we make landfall just north of the city gates. I know some of you are uneasy, but this will save us hours if no one falls off." He paused, sweeping his gaze along the two ranks. "Move out." He followed his own order by urging his horse further out onto the lake in the direction of the massive bridge.

Gorgoth gently nudged Baluk forward, whispering soothingly in her ear to calm her obvious nerves. She was no warhorse – he'd taken her from a Black Horse Courier messenger months ago – but she was strong enough to carry his bulk, and willing to walk across a large lake with enough encouragement. Such communication between mount and rider was not in evidence throughout the company; a few Blades, unused to horses, fell off or were unseated by their quivering steeds. The water was still shallow, however, and they were eventually guided back into their saddles by some of the smirking legionaries. Within minutes the entire force was heading across the body of water at a fast walk.

The warrior-shaman noted Mazoga and Krognak falling in slightly behind him, keeping half an eye on the murky water below him as an entire shoal of inquisitive slaughterfish swirled beneath the armed party, trying to comprehend the unfamiliar sight and eager for any hint of food. He could feel his magicka pool refilling, albeit very slowly; maintaining his batch of spells did not drain him significantly, and casting them in the first place had only cost him a third of his pool, but he would always prefer to have his full strength available at any one time.

"Do you think Dagon will attack the Imperial City?" asked Martin suddenly from his position slightly ahead of Gorgoth.

"It is likely from a strategic point of view; he will know that is where you are going." The City had got off lightly in the war so far; only a single Gate had opened on the City Isle itself, and it had been swiftly dealt with by the garrison. After Kvatch, Dagon had directed his main Cyrodilic attack against Bruma, but that was now certain to change. "We should prepare for the worst and try to get there as quickly as possible."

"My thoughts exactly," responded the Emperor, increasing speed to a trot, followed somewhat raggedly by the rest of his bodyguard. The horses were swiftly growing used to the motion across the surface of the water, and even the most unskilled of the riders did not look to be in immediate danger of falling off. Their progress continued without incident, the fog slowly receding to reveal a City Isle yet to be ravaged by the minions of Dagon. Most of the slaughterfish lost interest and drifted away, easing some of the tension, and some way behind them on the northern shore the Legion's cavalry could be seen on the Ring Road, making haste towards the bridge. Everything was going as planned, but understandably the nervousness of the group was almost tangible.

They made landfall without incident, Ocato sending a few messengers galloping ahead to warn the gate guards of their arrival. Steffan arranged the bodyguard, sending outriders to warn of any conceivable approach as they set off towards the city gates as quickly as they could over the hilly terrain of the City Isle. The party hadn't landed far from the gates, and it barely took them five minutes to reach the end of the vast bridge and turn towards the Chestnut Handy Stables and the massive city gates, which were reassuringly wide open. Both the road and the walls were well-populated by guardsmen from the garrison.

There was a tangible slackening in tension amongst the bodyguard, though they still remained alert as they approached the open gates. The guardsmen was sensibly keeping any civilians well out of Martin's way, though there were relatively few around; it was still early on a cold morning, and there had been no forewarning. "We need to get to the Temple of the One and light the Dragonfires as quickly as possible," Ocato reminded him as Emperor and High Chancellor rode through the gates side by side. "There will be more than enough time for your official coronation later."

Martin nodded and was about to reply when an Oblivion Gate exploded into existence on the shore, a bare hundred paces from the city gates. Gorgoth snatched up his helmet and had finished donning it by the time he had controlled Baluk's shock and spun her to face the Gate. Daedra had started to pour out of the portal even before the debris of its creation had finished falling. The discipline of the Imperial Legion meant that their surprise only lasted a few seconds before they began forming up for battle, most of the infantry stationing themselves between the enemy and the city gates while others on the walls began to sound the alarm bells to alert the city to the imminent attack.

"This changes nothing," Gorgoth told the Emperor as the Blades immediately moved to surround their charge.

"He's right," agreed Ocato, standing up in his stirrups to get a view over the heads of the Blades, preparing a few spells to lob at the approaching enemy. "Now it's just even more urgent for you-" He was cut off by an explosion behind them as another Oblivion Gate erupted into existence several streets away. Screams indicated that the Daedra were wasting no time in pouring into the city.

Baluk nervously danced a few steps and Gorgoth reined her in sharply, looking back up just in time to see the flash of another Gate opening in the distant Market District. It seemed that Dagon was going for an all-out attack, throwing everything he had at the Imperial City in a last-ditch attempt to stop Martin. The Daedra outside the walls were now within bowshot; arrows and Destruction magic started to rain down on them, but already hundreds were out of the portal. The grey clouds overhead were slowly replaced by a grim black sky laced with red.

"We can't let the city gates fall," Martin was insisting even as he turned in the direction of the Temple District. "Phillida needs to be able to get his army in."

"The garrison can handle that," Ocato was shouting at him over the increasingly loud sounds of battle, motioning the bodyguard onwards. "You need to light the Dragonfires!"

Gorgoth moved in closer, slotting in on the Emperor's other side as they started off towards the Temple of the One, the Blades closing around them in a circle sixty strong. "Every Daedra in the city is going to be charging straight for you," he told the ex-priest. "Keep every protective spell you know active. Ocato and me together should be enough to carve a path to the Temple if it comes to that." As he spoke, yet another Gate opened some way ahead of them. "Keep moving," he urged, dropping back slightly, looking to his left to find Mazoga riding beside him with sword drawn. "You'll stay at the city gates. Make sure they don't fall."

Fury contorted her features. "I'm _not_ leaving you."

He shook his head, riding closer and seizing her horse's bridle, bringing the two of them almost to a stop as Martin's bodyguard pulled away ahead of them. "I'll be next to Martin every step of the way, and almost every Daedra in the city will be going straight for him. Holding the city gates is an honourable duty, but also far safer. Will you go back and help hold them or will I have to shove you into a basement somewhere with Krognak to guard you?" He didn't wait for an answer, digging in his heels and sending Baluk cantering after the Blades, leaving his lover to turn back towards the city gates. They were held by at least three hundred legionaries, and Phillida's cavalry force would be there within an hour once they saw the fires; she would be safe there.

Pushing the thought from his mind as he caught up with the rear guard of the Blades, he looked from side to side to find Krognak and Dralasa on his right and Ilend, Aerin and Gnaeus on his left. Apart from them and the Blades, the streets were almost empty; it seemed that most civilians had fled for their homes at the first sight of the ominous sky, and the Legion garrison would be hurrying to pre-determined strategic positions. "The last battle is often the hardest," he told his comrades. "Be ready for anything."

They nodded and dispersed to join the bodyguard as the warrior-shaman pushed his way through to reach Martin's side again. "The district wall is just up ahead," Ocato was saying, standing up in his stirrups. "We might be able to reach the Temple District without a fight..."

He had barely finished speaking before they reached a deserted junction of four wide streets. Three of them were clear of anything but a few fleeing civilians, but the left-hand street leading towards the city centre had been completely blocked by a portal to Oblivion. A mass of Daedra were already within twenty paces of the Blades' left flank, and upon seeing the mortals they charged, howling and roaring. Steffan barely had time to bellow orders to turn and fight before the horde was upon them.

Gorgoth and Ocato immediately sent lightning and fire scything through the enemy ranks, but the Daedric charge had already cut through the Blades, killing nearly a dozen and unhorsing more in the chaos; the street was too tight and confined for the horses to move easily. Fireballs and lightning also struck at the mortal forces, only to be stopped by Martin's magical shield. Most of the Daedra on the street were dead or dying as the two mages cut them down, but there was still at least twenty in amongst the Blades, the daedroths and Dremora savaging the screaming horses and their riders even as they fell. Abruptly a Dremora pushed through the throng and grabbed for the Emperor's stirrup, raising a bloody broadsword. Gorgoth swung downwards, shattering the Daedra's head and splattering his brains over the cobbles. "We can't get held up here," he growled, keeping a bolt of death magic ready for any other enemy slipping through the wall of Blades. "Sixty men can get held up too easily. A smaller party makes faster progress."

The Emperor was gritting his teeth, clearly not happy to abandon his Blades – Daedra were pouring out of the Gate still, only held back by Ocato's constant onslaught – but he nodded in acquiescence. "Grandmaster, I'll take Ocato and five Blades and go on ahead," he called. "Catch up when you can." Steffan nodded and roared the names of five Blades, who peeled off from the rear and formed up around Martin.

Gorgoth looked to his left and found Krognak beside him, his cavalry longsword stained with Daedric blood. "You and Dralasa stay here. They might need a mage. I would rather not have Daedra coming up behind us as a Gate opens in front of us." The Orcish warrior gave a short salute and rode right back into the melee. Ilend and Aerin fell in beside the warrior-shaman as he started off in pursuit of Martin and Ocato, already trotting quickly towards the Temple District. Gnaeus was nowhere to be seen; knowing him, he was probably in the thick of it, daring any enemy to strike him down.

They caught up, the warlord slotting in beside the Emperor as they neared the gate to the Temple District, which appeared to still be held by a small Legion squad. There were no Oblivion Gates immediately in evidence ahead of them, but the partitioning wall was high and might hide one. Captain Renault, leading the vanguard, was about to hail the legionaries when the street just ahead of them erupted in a fiery explosion. Baluk screamed and reared with such force that the warrior-shaman was thrown from the saddle, hitting the cobbles just as several other explosions nearby shook the city. He immediately threw up a magical shield to protect himself from falling debris and forced himself to his feet, struggling to keep his balance on the still-heaving ground.

Thankfully, there was no Oblivion Gate, but several large craters dotted the street, still smoking. Small fires had broken out in places, and the houses on both sides of the street had been blasted apart by the explosions. Fallen masonry and other debris was strewn everywhere, and distant explosions indicated that this destruction was being repeated around the city; Dremora mages must have levitated or ascended the walls, and would be doing anything they could to impede the movement of the garrison. Thankful that his helmet kept out the worst of the smoke and dust, the Orc looked around; the detect life enchantment showed him only one life signature nearby, but it only had a short range. Walking over, he grimaced to find Baluk's shattered body half-concealed by the house that had fallen on her. The mare's chest still rose and fell, but her breathing was ragged and her eyes were already starting to slowly slide closed. He knelt and rammed a summoned dagger into her head to ease her passing, then straightened.

"Gorgoth?" Martin's voice came from his left, and the warlord spun to find the Emperor striding from behind a collapsed house, wiping dust from his armour and shadowed by Captain Renault and Caroline. "Our horses are dead or fled," he continued. "We'll have to continue on foot, but we can still make it fairly quickly if we use fortification magic. Have you seen any of the others?"

"No, and we will have no time to search. We cannot waste a second." Ilend and Aerin might well be buried under tons of rubble, or they might even have been blasted apart by one of the explosions, but he had no time to care about them now. The gatehouse that they had been heading for was now a gaping hole in the wall, partially blocked by debris, but it was nothing that they couldn't jump over.

"You're right," agreed Martin grudgingly, moving past him and walking quickly towards the Temple District. Before they had gone a few paces, Ocato and Callia appeared, the battlemage's armour almost unrecognisable underneath the grime but otherwise unharmed. Gorgoth made one last sweep of the area with a Detect Life spell and found nothing. He shook his head and took the lead as the other remaining Blades fell into a protective circle around Martin. Casualties were part of any war. And it was certain that this final battle would claim many more lives before the war was over.

As they approached the Temple District, the passageway through the remains of the gatehouse blackened as Daedra started pouring through towards them. Gorgoth tightened his grip on Blood King and smiled savagely. This was what he had been born for.

* * *

Aerin came to her senses slowly, blinking rapidly; even the dark light of the sky above made her head pound. She groaned weakly and rose to a sitting position. Remarkably, her head was the only part of her that hurt; she dimly recalled a massive explosion and getting thrown from Firebrand's saddle, but then only pain and blackness. A scrabbling at her side heralded the arrival of Ilend, who looked as bad as she felt; he was covered in black dust, blood was smeared over his face and his chainmail was covered in scars. But he was still alive, and his blue eyes were staring into hers with his typical intensity. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

"Head hurts." Her mouth felt so dry and clogged with grit that she looked down, only to find most of her potions gone from her belt.

The Imperial put a flask of water in her hands. "We needed your healing potions; Marcus barely survived even with two, and I needed one myself. You'd probably be in agony if I hadn't poured one down your throat; half your ribs looked like they'd been caved in."

She spat out the first mouthful of water to clear her mouth before proceeding to gulp down half the flask. "What happened?" she asked eventually, handing it back and looking around. They certainly weren't in the same street – this one was relatively undamaged – but the sky was still that ominous mixture of dark red and black. Over Ilend's shoulder she could see Roliand helping a blood-splattered Marcus Corvus with getting his armour back on.

"One of the explosions threw the four of us a fair distance, then we got caught in another blast. You hit your head on a stone and you've been out for twenty minutes. There haven't been any Daedra around, thankfully, or we'd all have been pretty much helpless; we only just finished re-breaking Marcus's leg."

"Martin? Gorgoth?"

"No sign, but they were further from the explosion than we were. They've probably gone on without us; not that I blame them. There's no time to waste." The Protector sighed and rose to his feet, taking Aerin's hand and dragging her up as well. She staggered slightly and put an arm around his wide shoulders, checking with her quiver with her other hand and grimacing. Most of her arrows had fallen out, but at least Trueshot hadn't cracked.

"What do we do now?" she asked as Roliand finished helping Marcus with his boots and pulled the Knight Brother to his feet.

"I've got no idea where we are, or where the Temple of the One is," responded her lover. "We had to drag you a fair way to get out of the path of those explosions. But we can't just sit here and wait while the battle passes us by." He pointed towards White Gold Tower, the Ayleid stonework standing out against the angry sky. "There's sure to be people fighting in the palace. We'll head there and see how many Daedra we can kill."

The Bosmer managed a weak smile. "Sounds good ta me," she responded, taking Trueshot off her back and nocking an arrow. Roliand drew his dai-katana; he'd lost his eye patch and his gaping eye socket combined with blood streaking his face made him look even more villainous than usual. Marcus drew his own katana and looked around for his shield before giving it up for lost. They started off down the street in the direction of White Gold Tower, constantly scanning for any danger; it was unlikely that Daedra were hiding in the houses, but there was a myriad of alleys in the Talos Plaza District that they could use to stay out of sight.

It didn't take long for trouble to find them. As they approached a junction of three streets, the sounds of battle reached their ears just before a small squad of guardsmen appeared, conducting a fighting retreat against a squad of at least fifteen Dremora. They were clearly outmatched – they were leaving a trail of corpses behind them – but the Dremora were so focused on their immediate enemies that they failed to notice the mortal reinforcements until Aerin's arrows had already struck two of them down. Ilend and the two Blades crashed into their flank, killing another two immediately and forcing the Daedra to turn and fight on two fronts. The Legionaries rallied, pushing with their tower shields and stabbing with spear or sword whenever they found an opportunity.

Aerin moved in closer, looking for openings she could fire into as the fighting moved around. She winced as one of the Legionaries took a spear through the leg, but managed to shoot down the Dremora who had wounded him. Another Kynaz lurched out of the battle and darted towards her, a savage snarl twisting his face as he raised a broadsword to cut her down. She calmly sent an arrow through his heart, but one of his comrades was right behind him, jumping over the falling body and slashing down with a battleaxe. The Bosmer dropped Trueshot and rolled to her side, snatching her shortsword out of its scabbard as she rose.

The Kynaz had already recovered, feinting right before aiming a swing at her head. She backpedalled quickly then rushed forward, cursing as her stab only left a graze along his breastplate. Seconds later, the haft of his axe slammed into her side, sending her to the paving stones with the breath driven from her lungs. Rolling onto her back, desperately clutching her sword, she scrabbled backwards as he moved in to finish her quickly. He blinked and started to turn as a throwing axe clanged off his pauldron. Roliand's war cry was the only other warning he had before the bloodied Knight Brother was on him, bellowing a Nordic war chant as he hammered at the Dremora's defence. Aerin staggered to her feet and seized her chance, throwing her entire body forward and plunging her blade into the Kynaz's back with enough force to penetrate the Daedric steel. He growled and smashed an elbow into her ribs, cracking one of them and sending her sprawling onto the pavement, but Roliand's dai-katana swept his head off moments later.

"I was aiming for his head," growled the Nord as he scooped up his throwing axe from where it lay. "I'm still getting used to the eye." He tapped his empty eye socket before walking over and helping her to her feet. The fighting had ended; Ilend and Marcus were moving amongst the bodies with the remaining four Legionaries, checking for signs of life. "Are you all right?"

Pain lanced through the Wood Elf's side every time she took a breath, but she'd become used to pain throughout the course of the war. "I'll be fine," she replied, despite failing to repress a groan as she bent to pick up Trueshot. "Nothing that Ilend needs to waste his magic on, at least."

Roliand smirked as he cleaned the blood from his blade, the fire of battle gradually fading from his eyes. "Try to keep your distance, little one. I think he might just go mad if you were to fall. No one would be safe then." He sheathed his dai-katana, looking up at the sky. "This is going to get worse before it gets better."

"How can it get any-" Aerin's words were cut off by the rumble of distant explosions coming closer. "Ah, crap." The Nord grabbed her shoulder and pulled her into the centre of the street along with the rest of the group; the Dremora were striking seemingly at random, and the biggest danger apart from the explosions themselves would be the surrounding houses falling on top of them. Within seconds, the explosions were upon them, great gouts of flame spurting from the ground and houses simply shattering as they were destroyed from the foundations up. Falling lumps of masonry clattered off the legionaries' raised shields as the earth trembled beneath them. The Wood Elf felt a chunk of wood whack into her shoulder and she staggered sideways into Marcus, hissing in pain. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the explosions left them, rolling onwards towards the outer walls, leaving a trail of devastation in their path. The Imperial City was being torn to pieces.

The Bosmer dragged herself to her feet using Marcus's elbow, coughing on the acrid air. They were surrounded by craters and collapsed buildings, some of which had vaguely human remains scattered amongst the scorched timbers and broken stonework. Naturally, most of the citizens of the city would be hiding in their homes or designated safe areas; the Daedra were targeting not just soldiers but any mortal unfortunate enough to be in the city. Whatever the result of the battle, the dead would number in the thousands; half the Imperial City might soon be dead if Martin didn't stop the invasion soon.

Ilend glared around them, watching for any danger. There were tears in his chainmail and there blood caking in his beard, but his bright blue eyes were still alert as they shone out of his grimy face. "Bastards," he growled under his breath as he turned towards her, clearly referring to the Daedric Prince behind all the devastation. "You're hurt," he claimed. "Can't draw a bow if you're that doubled up by merely breathing." Before she could protest, his hand was on her unhurt shoulder and the cool, refreshing sensation of Restoration magic was spreading through her body.

"Should've saved your strength, guardsman," she told him, managing to hide a grateful smile as she worked her left arm. "It wasn't like I was dying."

He laughed mirthlessly as he unsheathed his sword, taking a moment to check its edge before ramming it back into its scabbard. "Might as well spare you some pain," he said, coughing on the dust before continuing. "We'll all be dead soon if Martin doesn't hurry up; best we can do is go out well and hope we get a decent burial after." In the distance past his shoulder, a Great Gate lit up the skyline as it formed.

The Bosmer pursed her lips, nodding slowly as she returned his gaze. He was right, of course. A younger, less experienced Aerin would have been scared of death, scared of their situation. But now... she wrapped her arms around Ilend, closing her eyes and drawing comfort from his presence. If they died, at least they would die complete. "It's been great while it's lasted," she whispered into his ear. "Let's try ta keep that up, eh? Stick two fingers up at Dagon and try not ta die."

She could almost feel his grin. "Good plan," he responded, pulling back. An inhuman roar tore their attention away from each other; a small pack of lesser Daedra were pouring from what used to be an alley and were heading straight for them. The Imperial spun towards them, his longsword flashing from its scabbard. Roliand, Marcus and the Legionaries were already in combat stances, shields raised as the enemy approached them. Aerin raised Trueshot and nocked an arrow, leading a daedroth for a fraction of a second before firing. The arrow pierced the Daedra's eye, sending it crashing to the ground in an explosion of dust. As her second arrow brought down a clannfear, the archer checked her supply and cursed. Only three left.

Looking back up, she saw the Daedra smash into the Imperial ranks. Most held firm, but one legionary on the extreme left got swatted aside by a daedroth. Aerin sent an arrow into its chest before it could turn to flank the others, but the massive best merely staggered and growled before turning its small, beady eyes onto her. She cursed and nocked her last arrow, calmly keeping her breathing steady as the massive reptile lumbered towards her.

She barely felt the sword cutting through her ribcage.

The Dremora brutally twisted his blade within her, clamping a gauntleted hand over her mouth to stop her scream. She slumped to the ground as he withdrew it, pain and shock stopping her from warning her comrades and five other Dremora silently tore into the back of them. Two of the legionaries fell immediately, and Marcus took a spear in the back, barely managing to twist and haul his attacker down with him. Roliand spun at the last second and hacked the arm off the Dremora attacking him, while Ilend dashed forward, smashing his shield into a clannfear's face before jumping over the writhing Daedra's body and turning to face the Dremora. Aerin's attacker stepped over her to join the fray, leaving her to wonder why the air suddenly felt so cold. The daedroth had slowed its approach, those eyes appearing almost gleeful.

Attempting to force herself to her feet merely led to a painful flop, her hands slipping in the growing pool of blood spreading around her. Most of the lesser Daedra had already been killed, but the Dremora were relentless in their assault; the last remaining legionary was torn to shreds by a scamp and a clannfear, while Ilend and Roliand were being driven further apart. The big Nord's customary battle cries were abruptly silenced as a Kynaz drove a katana into his abdomen. Roliand pulled the blade further in to draw his enemy closer and hacked the Dremora's head in half, but another blade penetrated his back, sending him to his knees. The Knight Brother tried to raise his dai-katana for one last attack, but one of his attackers kicked him over and drove his spear through his throat.

Ilend was fighting like a man possessed, a snarl making his blood-splattered face look even more terrifying as he stabbed one Dremora in the chest before spinning and hacking at the knees of another. He kicked a scamp aside and blocked a scimitar with his shield as he cleaved a clannfear's head in two. Barely blocking a mace with his shield arm, he staggered backwards before throwing himself headfirst at a Kynaz, bulling his enemy to the ground before stabbing downwards into his face. A pained grunt burst from his lips as another Dremora darted in and neatly hamstrung him. As her lover stumbled, barely keeping his feet, Aerin tried to call his name but found only blood bubbling in the back of her throat. The daedroth reached down, the stench of its breath almost overpowering her.

The Protector was desperately trying to fend off the three remaining Dremora, but a heavy blow from a mace sent him to one knee. One enemy grabbed his sword arm while another sliced his chest open with his scimitar. The daedroth grabbed Aerin and raised her in both hands, sparing her the sight of the death of her lover. She stared into the cavernous mouth, opening wide, and accepted her death. She closed her eyes.

"_Saliith!_"

The battle cry sprang from at least thirty throats at once. Aerin opened her eyes in shock as the daedroth dropped her, blood spraying from her mouth as she hit the cobblestones. The daedroth was on the ground, both legs hamstrung, writing in agony as Huzei cut its throat. Dimly, out of the corner of her eye, the Wood Elf could see Agronak gro-Malog beheading a Dremora with such ferocity that the Kynaz's head flew over twenty feet and disappeared into a hole. Other gladiators were filling the street, scything down the remaining Daedra without mercy. She struggled to rise, to see if Ilend was alive, but Neesha's face appeared over her, pressing her back down and fumbling for a healing potion. "Easy, now," soothed the Argonian. "You've both lost a lot of blood..." The green-skinned Argonian and the red sky above faded to grey, then black, as the Wood Elf slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

Dralasa felt right at home; the swirling clouds of dust and the angry sky all reminded her of the Ashlands back home in Morrowind. The periodical explosions and the constant destruction was the icing on the cake; it felt so _right_ to explode so many Daedra at once, and there certainly had been no shortage of targets.

The Blades had been hard pressed since Martin left them; the explosions had thankfully avoided them, but even so, it was hard for horsemen to operate effectively in such cramped conditions, and the Daedra pouring from the Gate simply moved straight over the piled corpses and craters that Gorgoth and Ocato had left there. Dralasa had solved that problem quickly enough; after Krognak had escorted her to a vantage point on the second floor of a nearby house, she'd simply blown up most of the street to such an extent that most incoming Daedra fell straight into a deep pit. Grandmaster Steffan had got most of the remnants of the Blades reorganised and ready to follow the Emperor into the Temple District when the next wave of Daedric explosions hit them dead on, scattering them and plunging everything into chaos.

Since then, things had truly gotten interesting.

"The Temple District is just up ahead," claimed Arcturus Gabinus, the sole surviving Blade of their group. He'd lost his helmet and his horse, but he was still fighting effectively enough with katana and shield. "The wall used to be at the end of this street, but it's probably got more than a few holes in it by now." There was tightly suppressed anger in his voice; he was a native of the City.

"And if not, we jump," replied Krognak, his deep voice reverberating from within his helmet. Dralasa could feel the vibrations through his armour; she was sitting just in front of him on Bugak, one of the few horses to have entered the city that was still alive. Her own horse had taken three arrows early on, but she was so light that Bugak barely felt the extra weight. He was massively built like most warhorses from Orsinium, and she had already taken advantage of the good visibility to destroy three groups of Daedra that had threatened them. She'd left some for the others, of course; they might have got impatient if she made them feel too useless. Or maybe not, but it was always best to be sure.

"And if that happens, we'd probably get blown out of the sky mid-leap," snorted Davas Helas. "Those Dremora will have established themselves in towers and high places; they'll see us for sure." Her Ancestor Guardian was striding along at Bugak's right stirrup, using his bloodied glaive as a walking staff. There was a slight etherealness to his body, but the Dunmer's ebony plate armour and polearm certainly still did their jobs effectively, despite their user being over a thousand years dead. Dralasa had only called on him a few times in the past, but her distant ancestor certainly shared her love for battle, though their fighting styles were definitely very different.

Krognak merely shook his head as they turned the corner, clearly not understanding much of Davas' accented Cyrodilic. "I think-" He stopped talking as they were confronted by a sea of rubble, beyond which stood the shattered remnants of what used to be the dividing wall between the Talos Plaza District and the Temple District. Between them and their goal was a squad of Dremora, currently engaged in finishing off a small squad of legionaries.

The Orcish warrior wasted no time in drawing his greatsword and booting Bugak to a canter, roaring an Orcish battle cry that almost deafened Dralasa as she clutched his horse's mane for support. Most of the Dremora had broken off to form a line; even without her hands, she could deal with them easily enough. Half her magicka pool was gone, but her usage of Destruction magic was so efficient that it wouldn't matter for quite some time, and she still had two potions left. A slight focusing of magic, and four Dremora exploded, shreds of flesh and armour bombarding those beside them and leaving them open to Krognak's charge. His greatsword cut downwards, cleaving through a Kynaz's head, and another bounced off Bugak's chest and was trampled to the ground. Another Dremora, looking up from gutting the last legionary, only had time to widen his eyes before the Orsimer's blade cut down through his collarbone into his chest. Wrenching his blade free, Krognak turned Bugak and prepared to charge again.

Davas and Arcturus had reached the remaining Dremora, the former knocking one to the ground with the blunt end of his glaive before spinning it to stab the blade down between his enemy's eyes. The Blade blocked a swing with his shield and threw himself at his assailant with the fury of someone whose native city is being torn apart around him. Dralasa was about to explode a few more when she felt a terrible impact beneath them. A burbling scream burst from Bugak's throat and Krognak roughly shoved her out of the saddle as the warhorse fell heavily. She scrambled to her feet, only to frantically roll to the side as a Dremora stabbed at her, his spear red for most of its length with horse blood. Twisting onto her back, she thrust out her hands, engulfing him in a cone of white-hot fire; it wasn't hot enough to melt Daedric steel, but more than enough to boil the blood in his veins.

She scrambled to her feet as what was left of Bugak's killer collapsed, pausing to hiss in disgust at the number of rips in her now-filthy cream silk dress. War might be fun, but it was certainly costing her. Shaking her head, she looked around for further targets and, finding none, went to look for Krognak. A skilled horsemer, he'd managed to avoid getting trapped under his dying steed, and was currently sliding a dagger into the back of his horse's skull. She left him alone – she knew how attached cavalrymer could get to their warhorses – and looked around, finding nothing of interest but corpses and chaos. Davas finished checking a dent in Arcturus' pauldron and walked over.

"The Helas lack of self-preservation is certainly strong in you, Dralasa," he observed, leaning his glaive on his shoulder. His was a sharp face, with a jagged nose, prominent cheekbones and a pointed chin; there was little resemblance between them in appearance - apart from their flame-red hair - but there was plenty in temperament. "Just remember that it's that same lack that's ended up killing us over most of the years. You've still got centuries to live; don't throw your life away just yet."

She chuckled and patted his arm. "Don't worry, Dav; it'll take more than this little invasion to kill me."

"You're certainly overconfident enough for two of us. Remember your weaknesses. I remembered mine, and I lived for two hundred and forty years. You'll live for longer, if you survive; the magic in your blood will see to that."

"That magic and your lectures." She laughed and hugged him; he was slender enough for her arms to meet around his back, though his ebony plate was cold against her bare skin. "We'll get through this. Martin's sure to do something soon enough." She pulled back in time to see Krognak and Arcturus walking over, naked blades in their hands.

"Time's wasting, and there's killing to be done," the Orc told them, anger evident in his voice. Krognak didn't get angry often, but when he did, his unfortunate enemies certainly knew about it. He'd already used half his reserves of magicka, but he'd have no reservations about using up the other half despite not being able to naturally regenerate it.

"Lead on. I'll leave a few for you this time." She fell in close behind him as he approached the broken wall; she could barely create a coherent magical shield, so using her heavily-armoured friend as a barrier against possible archers was the next best thing. Arcturus and Davas took up loose positions either side of her, heads constantly swivelling. No movement as they moved down the street; no Daedra, no surviving mortals. Just the distant rumble of explosions and the sounds of battle.

They spread out as they reached the rubble of the wall, each of them having to carefully pick their way over treacherous heaps of blasted stone. Dralasa stubbed her toe and swore, for once regretting not wearing anything heavier on her feet than a pair of sandals. Krognak almost fell once when his weight caused a small avalanche, but eventually they were at the peak, staring out at the Temple District. Most of the area was hidden by rows of houses, but at least three Oblivion Gates had opened, and smoke and fire rose everywhere, almost hiding the Temple of the One, rising proudly out of the ruins of the ravaged district.

"Keep moving," grunted Arcturus, scrambling down the remnants of the wall as quickly as his armour would allow him. The area immediately ahead of them had been hit hard; it was now nothing more than a wasteland of smoking craters and scorched stone.

"It's starting to look even more like home," muttered Dralasa as she carefully picked her way down, remembering the rumours about what the Daedra had done to Ald'ruhn. After slipping for the fourth time, she kicked off her sandals in favour of the better grip offered by her bare feet; her healing abilities at least extended to stubbed toes and minor lacerations. She eventually reached what remained of the street – the stones hot under her heels – and walked up to Arcturus, who was looking around.

"Looks clear," he said, lowering his katana slightly and turning towards her. "We should-" His words were cut off by the icicle that speared through the back of his helmet, protruding out from his open mouth and spraying the Dunmer with his hot blood. His wide eyes stared wildly for a split-second before two more icicles hit him in the back. The Knight Brother collapsed to the floor as the Dark Elf dived for what little cover their was, searching frantically for the mage. A squad of at least fifteen Dremora warriors rushed onto the street, weapons drawn and heading in her direction. The nearby ground trembled as Krognak rushed past her, bellowing his battle cry and unleashing a chain-lightning bolt that felled three before he even reached them. Davas was right beside him, pausing only to shout to his descendant that she should look for the mage.

Dralasa had already found him, a robed Dremora standing next to a ruined house, apart from the raging melee, his eyes fixed on her. She swore; she hated fighting mages. Within seconds twenty icicles were flying towards her, accompanied by a cone of air so cold that it would freeze her solid. She smiled and summoned a wall of fire, melting the icicles and dispersing the cone before it even reached her; if he kept to his apparent specialisation of cold Destruction, she could beat him. She raised a hand and summoned white-hot flames around him.

Unfortunately for her, this mage had studied well, and unlike her, he was skilled in more than just Destruction. Her flame vanished within seconds, revealing the Kynaz to be unharmed save for a slightly singed robe. A quick glance showed Krognak and Davas fully occupied with the Dremora warriors; no chance of any help from them. Hoping to find a chink in his armour, she threw several large fireballs at him, only to watch him absorb them all and unleash several Silence spells in her direction. Knowing when she'd met her match, she dived into a nearby crater, grunting as the wind was knocked from her body and unsteadily scrambling to her feet, heading for a collapsed house she could hide in. Her enemy was smart; he'd know of her weakness by now. She could burn icicles, but not Silence spells or anything else he chose to throw at her.

A snatched glance behind her revealed her adversary raising his hand, a savage gleam in his eyes. Behind him, many of the Kyn were down, but more were pouring in from another street; Davas had noticed her predicament, but he was completely surrounded. More Silence spells burst from the mage's raised palm; Dralasa started to run as fast as her slender legs could carry her, but an unseen force jerked her back violently. Twisting in in the grasp of the Dremora's telekinesis spell, she could only watch helplessly as she was Silenced. An explosion beyond indicated that Krognak had blown up several of his enemies, and her Ancestor Guardian was rushing towards the mage, but he would be too late. The Kynaz smiled as he unleashed his Destruction once again.

"I don't want to die," whispered Dralasa, seconds before her body was pierced by several icicles.

* * *

Gnaeus watched the Daedric blood slowly drip from his ebony broadsword, which was now notched and chipped by chopping through bone, muscle and flesh. His left arm ached, and he found himself wondering how he was still alive. He'd thrown himself into the thick of the action as soon as the Blades were first attacked, and everything except his own personal combats had become a blur since then. He distinctly remembered looking up from disembowelling a clannfear to find the street – a different street – devoid of all life except for himself, a few wounded Daedra and five Blades, two of whom were still mounted. Since then the group – which included Grandmaster Steffan, limping but still effective – had meandered around the shattered streets trying to find their way to the Temple District, succeeding only in finding yet more danger. But somehow Gnaeus was still alive; few Dremora had taken notice of him, and he was still the match of any lesser Daedra.

"We need to move," came the gravelly voice of the Grandmaster from somewhere above him. The ex-hermit looked up to find the younger Imperial offering him a hand; behind him stood the two surviving Blades of their group, Baragon and Pelagius. Unwilling to let go of his sword, Gnaeus instead hooked his elbow around the Grandmaster's forearm, levering himself to his feet. He suddenly realised how much he'd been running on adrenaline; his muscles felt watery and his body was barely responding to his movements. As he straightened, he found himself wondering if age would kill him before the Daedra. He shook his head angrily and hefted his broadsword, ignoring the stabs of agony spreading throughout his overworked arm.

"What are we waiting for?" he growled, staggering forward before catching his balance and looking around. They appeared to be in what used to be a graveyard; most of its inhabitants had been rudely disinterred by the Daedric explosions. Shattered gravestones littered the area, and clods of old earth were scattered among shards of bone and shreds of ancient flesh. White Gold Tower loomed over everything; the sounds of battle were evident. The Daedra would be trying to take the Palace, of course, but Steffan had reassured them that it was solidly built and easy to defend, and that the Palace Guards were the best of the garrison. Gladiators from the Arena had also been glimpsed in the area.

"If we can get to the Palace, we can restock on potions and perhaps get a contingent of guardsmen to help us cut our way through to the Temple District," Steffan was saying, removing his helmet to wipe sweat from his forehead. The result was a dirty smear of grime and blood across his face, but he didn't seem to notice.

Gnaeus looked back down at his sword, still dripping blood. "Let's move, then. Come on, don't force the old man to wait for you." If he was going to get a death worth dying, this would probably be one of his last chances. He set off in the direction of the nearest entrance to the Palace grounds, not even checking to see if the Blades were following. Their footsteps quickly caught up with his, their steel plate armour making a lot more noise than his simple cloth tunic and leather boots.

They didn't have to wait long before danger found them once again; the graveyards were crawling with groups of Daedra. A small group of lesser Daedra confronted them as they rounded the corner of a damaged tomb; Gnaeus wasted no time and charged straight at them, driving the point of his blade through the throat of a clannfear before it had even reacted. "Come on, you useless cowards," he taunted, spinning away from a hunger's lunge and disembowelling it. "Can't kill even one old man? Useless, the lot of you." A daedroth swiped at him, but he sidestepped and stabbed it in the back of the knee as Baragon plunged his katana into its chest. He stumbled as a scamp crashed into his back, going down on one knee before shifting his weight. It rolled over his shoulder onto the ground in front of him, desperately trying to scramble to its feet even as his broadsword punched through its thin chest.

Standing, he turned and blocked a Frost Atronach's swing with the flat of his blade. His arm instantly went numb and he staggered from the force of the blow, barely keeping his feet. "Start trying!" he spat at his assailant, regaining his balance and swinging downwards with all his might. The ebony blade cleaved though the Daedra's shoulder and cut down into its chest before getting wedged. He attempted to dislodge it as the Atronach raised its fist for the killing blow; a spiderweb of cracks was running through the ice around the blade, but nowhere near enough to shatter it.

Steffan barged into the Atronach, throwing it momentarily off balance and giving Pelagius the chance to bury his katana up to its hilt in its chest. More cracks appeared, which finally split open as Steffan rammed his blade between the other two. The massive Atronach groaned before splitting in two.

"This is getting ridiculous. How much does it take to kill one old man?" growled Gnaeus, staring down at the slowly melting Daedra and shaking his head. He bent to retrieve his broadsword, ignoring the sharp twinge of pain in his back. A shout from Pelagius whipped his head around; six Dremora warriors were running across the graveyard towards them. The ex-hermit straightened, shifted his grip, and charged to meet them.

He met the first Kynaz was an overhead downcut to open him up for a thrust, but the Dremora simply caught his blade in his free hand and twisted it, forcing Gnaeus off balance. Seconds later, the Daedra's longsword had torn upwards through his gut, punching out of his upper back. The old Imperial barely had time to blink before his attacker had withdrawn the blade and pushed him to the ground, already turning to join his comrades in fighting the Blades.

Gnaeus barely felt the impact of his body hitting the ground. An odd mist was gathering around the corners of his eyes. He angrily blinked and saw his sword lying in the dirt a few feet away. He stretched out his right arm to take it, only to get no response. Of course; he no longer had a right arm. He stretched out his left arm instead. His body felt slow to react, clumsy; his fingers fumbled at the hilt. The mist was partially obscuring his vision now. He snarled and shook his head, trying to clear it. He had to get back on his feet and help the Blades kill those Dremora; getting pushed aside so quickly was demeaning. Something warm was dribbling from his mouth. He choked as he tried to swear. His fingers were still clumsy, pushing his hilt away rather than grabbing it.

As he died, Gnaeus Magnus found himself wishing that he could have fought for just a bit longer.

* * *

Yet again the Dremora charged, and yet again they were killed and pushed back. Blood King's pulsing was now an animal roar, constantly revelling in the blood and slaughter, constantly demanding more. Gorgoth was obliging it. He was in the vanguard of the tiny group that was hacking and spellslinging its slow way towards the Temple of the One, constantly assaulted by legions of Daedra, sometimes helped by isolated groups of beleaguered legionaries. Martin was in the centre, with Ocato bringing up the rear and Renault, Caroline and Callia guarding the flanks. They advanced over a carpet of dead and dying enemies, yet more were always replacing them. The magical reserves of all three mages were running low, and they only had so many potions between them.

Another Dremora warrior tried his luck. Gorgoth deflected his swing with his forearm and smashed his mace into his opponent's chest. The resulting shock wave shattered the Kynaz and sent not just him but his two companions crashing back into the ranks of the enemy with such force that they killed several more. Raising his left fist, the warrior-shaman grabbed a few other Daedra using telekinesis and hurled them into their already disordered companions, throwing in a few fireballs for good measure. "Move!" he barked, following his own order by advancing rapidly, slightly crouched with Blood King raised in from of him. The small hole he'd blasted was quickly filled with Daedra again, forcing them to stop and fight. They'd only advanced a few feet; at the end of the street was the small plaza surrounding the Temple of the One, but unless they could fight their way through the mass of enemies quickly their destination might as well have been in Akavir.

Calling on his necromancy, the warlord raised the nearby corpse of a daedroth, the crocodile-headed beast ignoring any wounds as it rose and started rampaging through the ranks of its former comrades. His attention was forced back to the immediate threat as four Dremora separated to attack him simultaneously. He evened the odds by exploding two and stepping forward to smash another into the far distance. The last remaining Kynaz leapt forward and tried to bury his spear into the Orc's gut, but Gorgoth sidestepped and pushed him into the path of Martin, who sliced his chest open with Goldbrand. An impact on his back told him that his armour had saved him once again, and he spun to elbow a clannfear in the face, blasting it away with a lightning bolt. A daedroth leapt at him only to be batted away with telekinesis. A small gap appeared in the thinning Daedric ranks.

"Go!" he roared, pushing Martin towards the gap while exploding four Dremora about to close in on them. The Emperor charged forward, cutting down a hunger and ducking under a wild swing from a daedroth. Gorgoth was right behind him, throwing lightning with both hands, cutting a path for the pair of them. He could sense Ocato and the Blades following, the Altmer battlemage using his remaining magical reserves to eliminate any threat to their rear. They were in clear air now; he and Martin turned to find a much-diminished horde of Daedra rushing after them in one disorganised mass.

He lacked the remaining magical strength to kill them all instantaneously, but he did his best; lightning bolts picked off the biggest threats, and deadly fogs of death magic enveloped small portions of the force before fading away. Other Daedra simply exploded as Martin went to work; more froze solid as Ocato joined in. Within seconds, there were only a few stragglers left, who either fled or were cut down.

Martin sagged, placing his hands on his knees and breathing as though he'd run from Anvil to Leyawiin. "My magicka is almost gone," he gasped as he fumbled for his last potion. Gorgoth turned and saw Ocato throwing aside his last empty bottle. The warrior-shaman himself was starting to feel the effects of the fatigue, but he sensed that he'd be needing every scrap of magical strength he could draw on soon enough. He took his last potion from his sword belt and drained it.

"Caroline's dead," said Renault in a hollow voice, looking around for danger as she mechanically cleaned her katana. "Spear through the throat just as we broke through." Callia had taken a blow that cracked her helmet; she dropped it to the ground and swallowed the dregs of her last healing potion.

"We need to keep moving," growled the Orc, not looking behind him as he set off at a jog towards the Temple of the One. The remains of the street were empty for now, but he knew that wouldn't last long. He heard the others falling in behind him and cast a spell of life detection. They were alone, for now.

They were almost to the end of the street when a blinding eruption of light and fire stopped them in their tracks. Gorgoth instinctively threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the blaze. The air around them grew dry and hot, all moisture sucked out of it. Narrowing his eyes to slits, the warrior-shaman lowered his hand and peered at the giant Great Gate that had just opened next to the Temple of the One, overshadowing even that great building.

From it stepped a towering figure, taller than the city walls. Four huge arms flexed as they tested their power, raising a colossal battleaxe. Its skin was a deep red, riven with runes and tattoos, and darker horns dotted its skull above two malevolent golden eyes, alive with both hatred and ecstasy. Mehrunes Dagon raised his head and roared in triumph as dozens of his minions poured from the Gate behind him.

Gorgoth shook off the initial shock of their total defeat and raised Blood King, preparing several spells to throw from his left hand. He would die here, but he would die fighting. Gathering himself to charge towards the Daedric Prince, he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"I can stop him, Gorgoth," Martin was shouting over the sounds of battle and Dagon's bestial cries. "I have to get into the Temple, but I can stop him."

The warrior-shaman nodded, not knowing what Martin was planning, only that he trusted his Emperor with his life. "I'll distract him," he replied. Martin nodded and led Ocato and the Blades off down an alley, aiming to move around Dagon if they could. The Orsimer rolled his shoulders and stepped forward, casting every cost-effective protective spell he knew on himself. It wasn't every day he confronted a Daedric Prince. "_Dagon_!" he bellowed, magically enhancing his voice so that it could be heard by half the Temple District. "Dagon, here is the Hero! Try me, Dagon!" He sent multiple lightning bolts stabbing towards his adversary. They might as well have been fleas for all the attention Dagon paid them as they impacted, merely turning his terrifying face to stare down at Gorgoth.

Moving quickly, the Orc jumped from the street to the top of one of the nearby houses. The Daedra's axe scythed down into the space he had occupied mere seconds ago, splitting the ground and shaking the earth. It rose from the crevasse it had created easily, Dagon turning with speed that belied his size to smash his fist into the house; the warlord barely escaped him, jumping from the house back to the street just as it crumpled from the sheer force of Dagon's blow. He sent a stream of lightning bolts directly into the Daedric Lord's eyes, making him curse and blink but having no other apparent effect.

The foremost of his minions had reached Gorgoth, a squad of Dremora moving in to attack. He stepped forward to meet them, spinning to deflect one blow with his breastplate and smashing Blood King into his assailant's head, shattering it and hurling the body halfway to where Dagon was standing, his axe raised and his eyes following Gorgoth's every movement. The warrior-shaman froze two Dremora solid and caught the thrust of one between his arm and body, pinning his attacker's arm in place as the rest of his body was torn away and broken by his swing. More Kynaz moved to attack, but Dagon was not prepared to wait that long; heedless of his own servants, he swung his axe downwards, forcing the warlord to leap and roll out of the way, the resulting earthquake of the axe's impact depositing him in an unceremonious heap in a doorway.

He sprang back to his feet only to duck as the axe swung at him again, passing only a few feet over him and tearing half the house apart. The warrior-shaman was already up and running towards Dagon, using telekinesis to blast away those who tried to stop him. With his target getting closer, the Daedric Lord would have to be slower and more precise in his attacks; at least, that was Gorgoth's thinking. As no mortal had ever experienced anything like this before, he was operating purely on instinct and guesswork. At least his enemy was facing away from the Temple of the One.

A group of five Dremora – all high-ranking, judging by their armour and horns – moved to block his progress. No time to fight them with nothing but his physical strength and skill; instead, he sent ball lightning flying at them. Three of them had magical shields up and blocked the magic that killed their comrades; two replied in kind, sending streams of fire towards him that he absorbed . They had no time to do anything else before he crashed into them, digging his shoulder into the chest of one to send him staggering before spinning and lashing out with Blood King, shattering both the shield and arm of the Kynaz who tried to block it. Instead of following up with a killing blow, he instead rolled forward, away from the inevitable attacks of the other two Dremora. He'd just regained his feet when Dagon's axe hammered down into the earth where he'd been, shaking him so badly that he lost his balance. Seconds later, one of the Daedric Prince's free hands closed around him, imprisoning him as he was lifted off the ground.

Gorgoth snarled as he wrenched one arm free, meeting the Daedra's gaze as he was brought to within feet of his malevolent face. He summoned magical blades of blazing steel and sent them flying into Dagon's eyes, only to watch the Daedric Lord blink them away without apparent effort. Attempting to paralyse him had no effect, and trying to initiate explosions within his arm merely resulted in his magicka rebounding from a shield of immense strength. Dagon opened his mouth, his breath dry and stale, his sharp fangs wet with red blood. Gorgoth, knowing that he was about to die, spat full in his killer's face.

The ground beneath them heaved. Dagon blinked, looking around, and abruptly the warrior-shaman was falling. He barely had time to refresh his protective magics before he hit the ground, bouncing once before coming to rest on his front. With his face pressed against the dusty street, he couldn't even summon the energy to groan; pain lanced through every crevice of his body, and attempting to even wriggle his limbs caused such intense agony that he almost passed out. At least his spine hadn't been broken, but most of his ribs probably were. Hot blood rose in his throat, leaking out of his mouth into his helmet. Wondering why no lesser Daedra had finished him off yet, he managed to ignore the pain and heaved himself over onto his back.

Dagon was locked in battle with what appeared to be a magnificent fiery gold dragon, standing amid the ruins of what used to be the roof of the Temple of the One. The dragon's roars were even more powerful than the Daedra's had been as it snapped at its adversary, beating him with its wings, forcing Dagon back from the Temple. The Daedric Lord almost lost his balance as he trod on a row of houses, but recovered to slam two of his fists into the dragon. It grunted and flew a short distance, settling on another part of the Temple roof and ducking under a swing of the Daedra's battleaxe.

Springing from the roof, it rose, dodging two wild swings, then dived down into its adversary, the sheer force of the impact almost toppling the Daedra. It sank its teeth into the Daedric Lord's throat, ignoring his fists pounding on its ribcage. A chunk of red flesh came with it as it pulled back. Dagon bellowed with rage and slammed two fists into its lower chest, forcing it back onto the roof before swinging his axe in a brutal upswing into its stomach. He dropped the hilt as the entire weapon started to disintegrate, steam pouring from the dragon's wound as it rose up, stretching to its full height. A stream of divine fire poured from its mouth, enveloping Dagon. The writhing Daedric Prince tried to fight, tried to escape, but the dragon kept on relentlessly.

Dagon slumped to his knees, the fight visibly going out of him as his form started to distort and dissipate. As he faded from existence, banished back to Oblivion, the last expression on his face was one of utter defeat.

The exhausted dragon staggered and stepped back into the Temple, barely managing to remain standing. Its fires were dimming as it managed to rise up and give one last defiant roar to the heavens, a warning to the Daedra, a warning to stay away and never return. Then the fires went out and the voice faded, the dragon eternally frozen in its heroic last moments. Gorgoth closed his eyes and grunted. They had won. He didn't know how, but they had won.

A stab of pain brought him back to his own concerns. Drawing on what little magicka he had left, he wove a healing spell through his body, repairing his shattered bones and sealing the punctures in his lungs. Tearing off his helmet and spitting out blood, he rolled over and rose to his knees, looking around.

Where there had once been a street full of Daedra, there were now only a few isolated legionaries emerging from where they had taken refuge. The corpses of mortals were everywhere, but it seemed that even the Daedric bodies had been banished back to Oblivion along with their lord. The sensations of relief and victory rose up within him, but he crushed them down ruthlessly; he still had things to see to. As he forced himself to his feet, brushing the hair out of his eyes, the first raindrops began to splatter on the ground. He rose his head to the rolling black clouds overhead and let the rain wash away the worst of the accumulated filth of battle from his armour.

Hesitant footsteps behind him betrayed the presence of a legionary. "Have... have we won?" she asked.

He stood and turned, fitting his helmet to the hook on his belt. "We have," he confirmed. "The war is won. But we still have our duty." Without sparing her a backwards glance, he started off towards the entrance to the Temple of the One; most of the structure was still standing, though the stone dragon would be visible from many angles through the gaping hole in the roof and side of the building. Before he reached the tall double doors, they swung open. Ocato stepped through, his vision almost glazed, not seeming to noticed Gorgoth until the warrior-shaman put out a hand to stop him. "What happened?" asked the Orc.

The Altmer blinked and met his gaze, slowly removing his helmet. His hair was dishevelled and most of his bronze armour was battered and covered with blood, but at least he was alive. "Martin... sacrificed himself," he replied, speaking slowly as though still in shock. "He shattered the Amulet of Kings and joined the blood of kings and gods. He... transformed into an avatar of Akatosh." The High Elf shook his head, his expression a mixture of sadness and wonderment. "He died saving us all. He died a hero. A true Septim, one to rival Tiber."

Gorgoth paused before resting a hand on the High Chancellor's shoulder. "A hero indeed," he replied. "But we still have our duty. I have an oath to keep, and you have an Empire to run." Ocato grimaced. "You know there is no alternative. This is your duty. I am sure you will do well." He squeezed the other elf's shoulder before stepping past him into the Temple.

The Dragonfires along the circular walls were dark, and the rain was hammering at the naked stone floor where there was no longer a roof or wall to protect it, but the interior of the Temple had always been stark and minimalistic. Half of the altar in the centre had crumbled into ruin, but the huge stone dragon taking up most of the space was a worthy replacement. Captain Renault was on her knees next to the statue, sobbing uncontrollably. Callia had an arm around her superior's shoulders and looked distinctly uncomfortable, half looking as though she wanted nothing more than to join the Knight Captain in vocally expressing her grief. Gorgoth ignored them both as he strode up to the skeleton, drawing his Akaviri dai-katana as he went. Jauffre was dead, but he remembered the oath that he had made to the dying Breton long ago; Martin no longer needed his services.

He knelt before one of the dragon's feet, gently laying his dai-katana down on the ground before his Emperor. Raising his right hand, he pressed it against the statue; it was warm to the touch, even through his gauntlet. Bowing his head, he finally let himself think about the fact that Martin was dead. The last Septim had been more than his Emperor; he'd been his friend, a good and honourable man. An Emperor worth dying for. Instead, their Emperor had died for them. Gorgoth would move on, of course; he'd seen so much death that he'd become fully used to it, even amongst those closest to him. But first, he would take time to remember those who had fallen.

His grip on the statue tightened. "Martin. You were a good man, and for that short time, a good Emperor. You are with your ancestors now, and even in their illustrious company, you can hold your head high." He paused. "Thank you."

An odd sensation of warmth and strength flowed through him from the statue, easing the accumulated fatigue of the battle. A blessing from the last Septim; it was somewhat fitting. He slowly withdrew his hand and rose, leaving his dai-katana where it lay. He was no longer a Knight Brother of the Blades; the Emperor had no need of help from him or indeed any other mortal; he was with his ancestors in Aetherius. Captain Renault was still unresponsive, but Callia was standing apart from her now, gazing into the middle distance, tears silently rolling down her cheeks.

Gorgoth walked past the Knight Captain – she was beyond all help, at least for now – and placed a firm hand on Callia's shoulder. She jerked and stared up at him with wide eyes. "I do not intend to linger here long," he told her. "Mourn him. He was a great man and a good Emperor. But do not get too distracted. Meet me at the city gates." He turned and left the Temple without waiting for an answer.

The rain had largely eroded the stench of Oblivion, and most of the fires around the city were dying down, but everywhere he looked bore signs of the merciless destruction the Daedra had wrought upon the Imperial City. White Gold Tower looked down imperiously upon mountains of rubble, and deep craters already starting to fill with rainwater. Entire blocks of houses had vanished, and shattered stonework was littered across the city. But Gorgoth did not care; his time here was done for now. Pushing his wet hair back from his eyes, he moved on, starting off towards the city gates with a renewed sense of urgency.

"Gorgoth!" He stopped and turned to see Agronak hurrying towards him, trailed by a limping Ilend. Both of them looked like they'd seen hours of battle – Ilend was covered in dried blood and there were so many rips in his chainmail that it was barely holding together - but it was Aerin's limp form in the half-Orc's arms that caught his attention. He moved swiftly to meet them, noting the various holes in the Bosmer's leathers and the fact that they were stained with worrying amounts of her own blood. "We healed her as much as we could, but she still hasn't come round," explained the concerned Imperial as Agronak knelt, gently laying the Wood Elf on a bench that was mostly intact.

The warrior-shaman frowned, slipping off his gauntlet and taking her pulse. Very faint. He pressed his ear to her chest, again finding only a very faint heartbeat. "I have told you before that I cannot create blood," he replied, checking her magically for any other wounds. "There is nothing I can do for her. Restoration has helped her as much as it can; now her own strength must do the healing."

"But..." Ilend seemed lost as the warrior-shaman straightened. "She's _dying_."

"Not necessarily. Give her all the rest she can, feed her whatever you can get down her mouth. She is small, but she has a strong spirit, and she will never give up while she has breath left." He placed a hand on the Guildsman's shoulder. "Take her to the best inn you can find in the City, and remain there with her until she is better." He fumbled around in his enchanted belt pouch until he found a bag of coins. "This should be enough." Forcing the bag into the Imperial's hand, he knelt and placed a hand on Aerin's forehead, casting a limited-duration shield that would at least keep the rain off her. "If the Tiber Septim Hotel is still standing, I would recommend that."

Agronak bent to pick her up again as the warrior-shaman stepped away. "We'll get her there," he said. "You have my word on it."

As they turned to leave, Gorgoth grabbed Ilend's arm again. "I know how much she means to you, but look after yourself as well," he growled. "The war is won; you both have a good future ahead of you, and I am fairly sure she will live to see it. When my business in Orsinium is concluded, I will return here on a semi-permanent basis to lead the Guild; you two will be instrumental in rebuilding the Kvatch branch. Remember your duty, Guildsman."

His words seemed to break through the Imperial's daze. "I will," he replied, the familiar determination returning to his gaze. "Thanks, Gorgoth. And..." He paused, looking from Aerin to the statue towering over the Temple of the One. "Martin?"

"He died saving us all. A true Emperor to the end."

Ilend nodded and made a hasty salute before turning to leave, hurrying off after Agronak. Gorgoth watched them leave, pulling his gauntlet back on. Aerin was likely to survive; he'd seen similar cases pull through when they received the required care and attention, and Ilend was devoted enough to attend to her every need night and day until she was fully fit again. But that was his problem; Gorgoth had his own to take care of. Mazoga had been at the city gates; he had no idea how long it had taken Phillida's vanguard to get there, but there would have been fighting; he knew he'd sent her to a relatively safe place, and she was a good warrior, but... he would not rest until he was sure of the safety of her and his child. He broke into a run.

Fortification magic enhancing his speed meant the city passed him by in a blur. He didn't stop to help survivors comb the wreckage, nor did he respond to any hails of the Hero of Kvatch. He only stopped when he came to a hole in what used to be the dividing wall between the Talos Plaza District and the Temple District. The street was deserted except for Krognak, his armour bloody, his huge body shaking with sobs as he cradled Dralasa's corpse. Gorgoth grimaced as he slowly walked over to place a hand on his friend's broad back. They always had been close.

"Go on," grated Krognak, forcing his words out through gritted teeth. "I'll catch up. Just... let me mourn. I'll bury her later. Go on. I'll be fine."

The warrior-shaman nodded and turned away, unconsciously clenching his fists. Yes, they had won, but the cost had been great. At least Dralasa had died well, in battle; she wouldn't have embraced death as he would have, but at least she had not died a coward like so many who had huddled in their homes. He would mourn for her later, when the time was right. For now... he gathered himself and jumped though the hole in the wall, hitting the ground running on the other side. The rain was steady and relentless; he could feel it pouring down the back of his armour, mingling with the sweat and soaking his clothing. He ignored it; the cold felt soothing after the hot, dry air of Oblivion.

Phillida's cavalry was moving quickly to secure the city; he passed several patrols on his way to the city gates. The Talos Plaza itself had survived relatively intact, but the hundreds of corpses lying around the area indicated that there had been hard fighting. He reached the city gates and halted; Phillida had stationed himself there, giving orders and coordinating his men. Bodies were piled high around the gatehouses, and it appeared that the fighting had spilled onto the walls themselves before Martin had thrown Dagon and his minions back into Oblivion. Knowing that Mazoga would have stationed herself at a bottleneck, he hurried towards one of the towers.

Mazoga was sitting against the wall just beside the doorway, sword still grasped in her left hand. Her right arm was missing from the elbow down, but it was the gaping wound across her torso that had killed her. It had probably been a large battleaxe or halberd that delivered the terrible blow; the wound ran from her left breast almost all the way to her right hip. Her eyes were still open; normally full of fire and passion, they were now dead and cold. The rain had mingled with blood from a scalp wound; it made her look as thought she'd been weeping blood in her last moments.

Gorgoth clenched his fists to stop them shaking as he knelt beside her, casting a spell of life detection in an illogical attempt to deny the truth: his lover and his unborn child were dead. He managed to keep his hand from shaking as he slid her eyes closed and stood. He tried to keep his seething emotions in check, tried to call upon the mental fortitude that he'd maintained over all the years. He failed.

He threw his head back and roared, letting the rage and hate and sorrow come pouring out. For an instant, he was back in the mud hut, calling his mother's name as he shook her mutilated corpse. Then he was back in the present, voicing his pain and rage yet again before stepping forward and slamming his fists into the city wall, again and again, chipping the stone and denting his gauntlets. He hadn't felt such loss since his mother died, and he channelled every emotion he felt into his fists, letting the red mist take him as he smashed his fists into the wall again, so hard that he cracked his knuckles despite his gauntlets.

Time passed; he didn't know how long, but eventually he came to his senses, breathing hard and staring at a gouged section of the city wall, with pain lancing through his hands. With great effort, he forced his mental armour back into place; his lover and his unborn child were dead, and there was nothing he could do about it. Regret was pointless; trying to change the past was useless. He had vented his anger; now he would move on, always remembering but never regretting. Mazoga would be another painful memory; one of many that tormented him, but he would not let it affect him. Not any more. He would control himself or go mad.

He sent healing magic through his hands and turned from the wall, looking down at Mazoga's corpse. Emotions surged, and he forced them down again. He had no time to waste on weakness. Most of Phillida's bodyguard were carefully avoiding looking in his direction. Krognak was standing several feet away, still cradling Dralasa's corpse, and beside him stood Callia; grief was still etched on her features, but her back was straight and her eyes alert.

The Oblivion Crisis was over. The cause he had fought for had won. It was the end of an Era, and the start of a new one. "Our purpose here is ended," he told them, his voice calm and emotionless. "Many have died this day. We mourn them and we move on, for there are battles still to be fought."

* * *

**A/N: And so it ends. This project has taken nearly three years, far more than I originally thought it would, and it's also expanded beyond whatever I thought it would be like when I first started. And now it's finally over... though soon I'll be along with my next project, so don't worry about me fading back into the shadows any time soon. But anyhow, I haven't written a disclaimer for the entire fic, so I'd better do one now:**

**I do not own The Elder Scrolls or Oblivion or any of its characters; they belong to Bethesda, the jammy gits. I just hope they don't mess their excellent universe up by outsourcing it to make their MMO. I don't make any profit out of this, either, not that I ever wanted to.**

**I DO own the following: Gorgoth gro-Kharz, Aerin, Gnaeus Magnus, Selene, Lurog gro-Brugh, Dralasa Helas, Krognak gro-Durak, Gornakh gro-Nagorm, Primo Varius, Uriel Signus, Burzukh gro-Ghash, Merildan, Tarad, Kharz gra-Shagren and every other original character I've created; if I were to list them all it would probably take hours for me to just find them all.**

**I couldn't finish this A/N without thanking my readers and, more notably, my reviewers; right from the start, you lot have been there, encouraging me and giving me advice; even those one-liners are helpful. There's far too many reviewers for me to list every single one, but I'm certainly going to try: _CallumDaGrouch123_, for being my very first reviewer and giving me that first taste of the unique joy you get when you see a new review in your inbox; there were those who reviewed at the start before tailing off later, but who still remain much-appreciated; _Sneer_, _Rickard Steiner_, _Idledreamcatcher_, _Reaction Meter_, _The Blackjack_, _Levi Matthews_, _Omega Gilgamesh,_ _zombie chow, Commentaholic_ and _NoSoundComes_, to name but a few; those who are still chewing through this behemoth with appreciated determination, including _InkheartFirebringer_, _the mighty lu bu_, _SpecialAgentOrange_ and _athos-aramis_ (who gets special thanks for helpfully nitpicking my anatomy); those who have been there throughout, notably _HunterAzrael_, _Koboldlord_, _Random Reader_, _Pale White Shadow_, _Rokibfd_, _Vickmackey007_, _Lohce Azcry_, _Orion the Awesome_, _Agent 94_ and many more (apologies, but I AM typing this at 2:30am; my memory is bad enough normally). And then, of course, there are the 100%ers, those who have been there for every single chapter (or near enough): _The Underpaid Critic_, my most ever-present anonymous reviewer and much-appreciated despite never being able to reply to you properly, _Lord Jacob of Writing_, who blitzed though the entire behemoth then spent months waiting for the last few chapters, and, of course,** _**Arty Thrip**_**; not just a great and loyal reviewer who's been there from the start, but a good friend as well. And a damn good writer; if you haven't read her fics already, they should be next on your list. Anyhow, I know there are many more reviewers than this, and your input is certainly as appreciated as anyone's on this list, but I'm sure you understand if I overlook you by accident, given that at the time of writing I have 890 reviews, which is insane. So here's a blanket thanks to everyone who has ever reviewed Blood and Steel; you people are great. Thanks a lot; you have my gratitude, for what it's worth.**

**That is probably the longest paragraph in Blood and Steel, but it deserves to be. Anyhow, it's finally over, but keep the reviews coming; I know some don't like to review a fic until it's complete, and in any case I want to hear what you lot have to say about it (as always). Anonymous reviews will be replied to in a separate A/N underneath this one, so check back if you've left an anonymous review; I'll reply to it.**

**As for the future, you'll probably know if you've been following me that I plan to write an Oblivion Dark Brotherhood fic after this; that still holds true, and I'll try to make it original and not just another rehash of the same story that's been overdone hundreds of times. Before that, though, there'll most likely be a oneshot tying up some loose ends; I won't be writing an epilogue because that oneshot and my DB fic will take place in the same universe several months after BaS; hence, you'll learn of the fates of the surviving characters in there. Also worth noting is that my eventual Skyrim fic will also be set in what I'll be calling the 'BaS universe'.**

**Right, that's it from me; it's time to end this fic, which has seen me through years of college and the end of my education; I've definitely improved along the way as a writer, and here's hoping I'll be able to keep on improving; after all, 'anyone can always improve' is the mantra I sometimes use in my reviews... but anyhow, while the earlier chapters of BaS are, indeed, in a woeful condition, it might be some time before I'm able to bring them up to scratch; writing new things is always more i****nteresting, after all... and I take long enough to write new chapters anyway.**

**And now, until next time, I'm off. Hopefully I won't be away for too long...**

* * *

**A/N: This bit is to reply to anonymous reviewers:**

**HereFromTheStart: That's... certainly good to hear. And very flattering. You'll get more, that's for certain. Thanks for reviewing and for staying with me all this way.**

**Anon: Yes, nearly three years is definitely 'forever', even for a fic this long; long update times are something I'll always beat myself up over unless I have a valid excuse, because I don't want to let you readers down. I'll work on it. Thanks for reviewing.**

**Underpaid Critic: For me it would make simple sense for all my other TES fics to be in the same BaS universe, if only for people to know exactly who the key figures were at certain points; I do like establishing continuity. There definitely won't be a full-blown sequel to BaS, merely that oneshot that ties up a very obvious loose end. The DB fic that'll come after this will be in the same universe with some surviving characters getting references and cameos, but that's as far as it goes.**

**1 word every three minutes... not bad, but it could always be better. Updating slowly is an obvious weakness of mine; especially as I KNOW I'm capable of updating with a 10,000 word chapter in two weeks. It's something I'll always work on, because anyone can always improve...**

**The real world doesn't exactly have any lustre at the moment, given that I'm still looking for a job a year after leaving college. Oddly, I seemed to write faster when I had coursework deadlines to meet rather than now when I have more time...**

**But anyhow, good to hear you liked it. Thanks for reviewing all these years.**

**Sakura's Edge: I'm not sure if you got the reply I sent to your profile or not, and as you reviewed anonymously I figured I'd betterp lay it safe, so I'll paste my reply here as well:**

**Good to hear it delivered. And yes, it most definitely was a tragic ending; Gorgoth was utterly convinced that he was doing the safest thing by separating them (and he actually was), so he at least expected her to still be alive... but she wasn't. Good to hear it performed as expected, because Gorgoth in those last few moments was truly broken (he pulled himself back together as he always does, but as ever when something is broken and put back together, there are scars that will never fade).**

**Krognak is a very emotive Orc, so it'd be expected for him to mourn a good friend (I'll leave it ambiguous as to whether they were lovers as well, for now) very vocally; there's weakness and then there's mourning your friends, so Gorgoth (and other Orcs) would fully understand why he's crying his heart out (and later drinking pubs dry). But anyhow, such a conversation would be good to have, but there won't be one, at least not immediately after this event; the oneshot takes place months down the line, though all the scars will still be evident. As for Callia... well, she's finally seen some vestige of what he's been through. She'd be more sympathetic at the very least. Again, it'll probably be addressed in the oneshot (she's determined to see Gornakh dead as well, though of course not nearly so much as Gorgoth).**

**Gnaeus was never going to go out quietly. 'Stubborn bugger' describes him perfectly, and he died as he lived. No doubt he's making the most of time in Aetherius until his soul is recycled... though I'm still undecided as to whether his brother's there waiting for him or whether he's still alive.**

**I can confirm that Aerin is alive; she'll be weak for a while, but like Gorgoth says, she's strong and a fighter. She'll make it. They definitely won't see Skyrim, though; Ilend's pathetic magical abilities won't stretch his lifespan, and though Aerin might feasibly still be alive in 200 years she'll be very old indeed for a mundane Bosmer. And as half-elven children age much quicker than their elven parents, if they all die naturally she'll likely outlast all of them. Sad thought.**

**I haven't played Oblivion since the early chapters; it's not even installed on this computer. On that note, I haven't played Skyrim this year either (it's not a good game) though I might fire it up again soon after modding the crap out of it to make it the game it should have been. But anyhow, before that Skyrim fic (it WILL happen; I want it very badly to happen), there must be the oneshot/DB fic/Iron Walls oneshot; I'm a fan of chronology in my writing. Hopefully I won't take too long. Thanks for reviewing.**

**LPalaiologos: Your review was for Chapter 53, but I'm replying here as you've clearly read to the end (and I don't have anywhere else to reply). Anyhow, as for Aerin, realise that she's still quite naive; she doesn't stop to think that Gorgoth would be perfectly fine with raping someone she actually likes, an act which would DEFINITELY result in her hating him. And realise that Dralasa is nowhere near innocent; she wasn't angry for the people that Mannimarco defiled, but rather at the defilement itself; as a proud ancestor-worshipping Dunmer, she hates necromancy with every fibre of her being, hence her hatred of Mannimarco. And as she's travelled extensively in the past with Gorgoth and his mercenaries before, she's definitely not condemning Gorgoth's rapes at all; she loves him (platonically, of course) even though she knows that he's raped many and would again, even those who might be close to her (then again, Dralasa is just slightly unhinged).**

**Gorgoth already has most of High Rock hating him, and as he points out in his own thoughts, the people of Cyrodiil love the Hero of Kvatch, whom they hold up and idealise without actually knowing him; they would DEFINITELY hate Gorgoth gro-Kharz. Besides, the immense emotional trauma from his childhood has left him tortured enough already (many of his horrendous deeds stem from that); see the oneshot semi-sequel when I finally get around to writing it. But until then, thanks for the review, and I only wish you had a profile so that I could actually respond at a decent length.**


End file.
